Why Fireflies Flash
by Lyra Raine Sparrow
Summary: "Have you slept with everyone in London?" Quinn blinked at the bluntness of Sherlock's question. "I have not slept with you, now have I?"
1. Prologue

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Prologue**

Christabella Quinn, or Anabeth as she preferred, didn't always act the way she did. No, not at all. Growing up, she was never the emotionless being she was now. No one knew why, or how for that matter, she became as caring as a stone the summer after her junior year.

It worried her family, all nine of them, to the point of where the put her into therapy. Not that it helped at all. Whenever any of the sixteen various therapists got something out of her it would immediately but scratched after some variation of the eminent question of, "How does that make you feel?"

"I do not," she'd reply monotonous.

"You have to feel something," they'd argue.

"I am a sociopath. My emotions, if I had any, would be shallow at best."

At that point, her parents appointed her a new therapist. None ever got farther than what they already knew. She pulled herself out of therapy after turning eighteen, dropping out of school right before graduation.

Her parents would blame it on getting into the "wrong crowd." There'd have to be a crowd for that to be true.

She often ran into the law, sometimes getting off scot-free, she was a Quinn after all, meaning she held more power in her pinky toe than they'd ever hope to taste in their dull and ordinary lives. It was something that did not go wanted by Anabeth.

Perhaps because she already had too much attention drawn to her. She was the baby, after all, spoiled rotten by all seven of her older siblings, namely Fiona (the eldest, Anabeth's senior by nine years) and Alfred, or Alfie as everyone knew him as (only four years her senior). From the time she took her first breath in her room of the Quinn Manor (her mother thought a home birth would be best) to her almost marriage everything was documented. The perks of being the daughter of CIA royalty.

She didn't chose that path, unlike the triplets and her father. At least not at first. No, instead she took to the Marines like a flower took to sunlight. She thrived in the corps, quickly scaling the ranks to Gunnery Sergeant under her brother Liam's direction. Unfortunately, for an undisclosed reason (probably something to do with her father and possibly Alfie) she was Honorably discharged under the bias of a near-fatal wound. Claiming a Purple Heart on the way (they gave them out like candy), Anabeth returned home to the Quinn Manor.

It wasn't long before the haunting memories of the battlefield called to her again. She considered taking after her mother and applying for the FBI (it did seem the whole family was on the side of the government, save for Anabeth's brief stint as a convict) but the appeal wasn't nearly the same. So, after confiding in Alfie, he suggested, well, the CIA.

It was a perfect fit from the start. Though she did have some trouble getting in at first, seemed she needed to graduate high school at least.

She proved to be one of the best agents the Company had seen in a long time, rivaling only her father. It appeared that her emotionless take on the world, as well as her strong hand in logic and reasoning, was exactly what was needed. Not to mention her background in performance arts was the glue to the puzzle that Anabeth laid out for others to see.

Needless to say, this is where our story starts. A cliché for an almost cliché story in which two people meet and, with the help of some outside catalysts, find an almost unwanted companionship.


	2. Hush, Hush

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter One  
"Hush, Hush"**

"She's a quiet one, that girl Anabeth, the one renting the other flat," Mrs Hudson says to Sherlock one morning. "Though, I suppose most artists are. And she keeps the strangest hours. Staying home all day, only to be out all night. An American too. Maybe you should introduce yourself?"

Sherlock ignored her, continuing to stare into the microscope placed in front of him.

"We're in the middle of a case at the moment, he's not going to answer," John speaks up from his spot in front of his laptop.

"The end of a case," Sherlock says flippantly as he pulled his phone from his pocket. "We're meeting Lestrade at Bart's."

John rolls his eyes, stands to follow his best friend, and plants a friendly kiss on Mrs. Hudson's temple. "Tomorrow," he promises. "I'll even drag Sherlock with me."

"Coming, John?"

"Be careful, you two."

"Always am!" Sherlock calls up the stairwell.

* * *

They didn't return until late that night, Sherlock stumbling around still drugged by the bartender, who was, of course, the murderer. While John was left behind to deal with the cabbie (who'd become irate after Sherlock's very thorough, very correct, deduction of his twelve year marriage ending in a long drawn out divorce, in which he lost _visiting rights_ for his children, after not one but five very bad affairs on her account) Sherlock stumbled up the door of 221B Baker Street. However, when he went to open the door, the handle was wrenched out of his hand.

"Oh Lord!" the woman said, hand over her heart. She gave a half giggle half snort sort of laugh at her own embarrassment. "You nearly scared me half to death! You must be one of the boys upstairs. I'm Anabeth Ryder."

He didn't bother paying any attention to what she said, instead choosing to unravel her by what she wore; an off-white coloured ruffled blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt that was just above the length deemed appropriate for professional use. Well... it really depended on the profession.

Her hair, a natural jet black, was straightened and pulled into a high pony (practical). And speaking of high, the spikes on her feet had to be six inches at least (impractical and further proves his theory of her profession) and pale blue that, unsurprisingly, matched her eye colour, pocketbook, and near perfect manicure (there were a few chips and paint under her nails, an artist indeed). Her makeup was light and natural; opting for just a swipe or two of mascara and a pinkish shimmer that complimented her olive skin tone quite nicely (spends a lot of time tanning). She held herself like a woman in charge (she enjoyed power) but she tried desperately to hide it (doesn't want to stand out too much). The only jewelry she wore were hoop earrings and a pair of diamond studs in her ears and two gold chains around her neck, one older and obviously less cared for than the other (possibly a family heirloom, most likely a locket given to her as an unwelcome gift, she wears it in spite of her dislike of the person, it is an antique after all).

As for her voice and what she said, a Southeast American accent probably Virginian, North Carolinian or Tennessean, possibly a mixture of all three (with a hint of Georgian, specifically Savannah probably sent to finishing school). She threw her hand over her heart or rather her chest where the necklaces resting. The exclamation of "Oh Lord" combined with the aforementioned fact, the other necklace is probably a cross given to her at her baptism, suggesting she's highly religious (Baptist or Presbyterian, given where she's from).

"Conclusion: Anabeth Ryder is a high class prostitute, one willing to play the part of dominatrix easily, probably against her parents' wishes. What whore didn't? Probably why she moved across an entire ocean. Phone calls and text messages are easy enough to ignore. Although, going by the emotionless look in her eyes, she's hiding something. Something serious, more likely the reason she moved to London."

A raised eyebrow and a breathy "Ah," from Anabeth in addition to a highly upset "Sherlock!" from John told the detective that the last part, if not all of it, was spoken aloud.

"You," Anabeth said looking down at her shoes briefly, "must be Sherlock Holmes. Which means," she smiled at John, "you are Dr. Watson. Anabeth Ryder. Pleased to meet you."

"You as well. And please call me John."

Anabeth's grin seemed to grow. "John then. I must say, Holmes, I'm impressed. Mrs. Hudson warned me about your interesting...hobby. And as I hate to admit, you're right on most accounts. I am a Southern Belle. Virginian, born and raised, though I did spend my junior high years with my grandparents in Savannah. I do come from a church-goin' family, Roman Catholic though. Baptized in the Vatican of all places, where I received this," she held up the golden cross hidden in her bosom. "I did move here partially because of my family and partially because I'm hiding something. Good eyes, by the way. Pun not intended."

"You had to humor him," John mumbled.

"What did I miss?" Sherlock questions. "I always miss something."

She gives a shrug. "Think about it, it'll come to you. As for me," she points to something over their shoulders, "that's my ride. Best not upset the boss-man. See y'all later, yes?" She slips by and saunters towards the shiny black sedan waiting at the curb. "Oh, and Holmes?" she says at the door is opened.

Sherlock turned around, nearly losing the remainder of his balance.

"I prefer the term 'call girl.' It's _a bit more professional_, don'tcha think?" With a wink she disappeared into the dark of the car, shutting the door behind her.

"She's not a 'call girl'," Sherlock says as the car pulls away.

John shakes his head, a grimace on his face.

"Not good?"

"A lot not good, Sherlock," John snaps. "You can't just go around accusing our neighbors of being call girls."

"Why not? Mrs. Hudson does it."

"Well, Mrs. Hudson's...Mrs. Hudson," he decided.

"I wonder if she's gotten to the wife in Doncaster yet..." Sherlock mumbles. "Doesn't matter. Anabeth's not a call girl, as it were."

"Then what is she?"

"I don't know."

* * *

**Inside The Car**

"So, I see you've met my brother. Finally."

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Oh yes. He does seem to be quite the piece of work."

"Does he suspect anything?" Mycroft wonders.

"Of me?" With pursed lips she shook her head. "Not yet. But he was drugged. Fully functioning, but his inhibitions and morals severely lowered, GHB is my guess. The date rape drug. He will not remember me in the morning. But with the right... stimulation, his memory will be jogged. Considering he nearly figured me out on the stoop, he will probably figure me out sooner rather than later. I would expect a phone call in a week or so. Now, I really do need to get to work. So if you could just drop me off at the club, I would appreciate it."

* * *

**221B Baker Street  
**_**The Next Morning**_

"Sleeping Beauty's finally made it up, I see."

John smiled at the new neighbor. "Woke up about three hours after you left."

"So a full eight hours then? Good. The drugs have worn off then. How are you feeling?"

The brief conversation left the detective slightly confused.

"Of course," Anabeth says. "You probably don't remember me. I'm Anabeth Ryder. We met last night, during your drug induced state. You deduced me in less than a minute. I was impressed."

Sherlock squinted slightly as something jogged his memory.

"_I prefer the term 'call girl.' It's _a bit more professional_, don'tcha think?" _

Anabeth was dressed more conservative this morning, in a mint wrap dress that went just past her knees, black and mint platform sandals (only four inches this time), her hair was still pulled into that ponytail. There was something familiar looking about her. No doubt because of the meeting last night.

"You're not a call girl."

She smirked. "Oh? Am I not?"

"No."

"Hmm. Interesting. Anyway, just came up here to see if either of you wanted to join me for tea. Today's my day off and I thought I'd spend some time with my neighbors. Mrs. Hudson's next door at the bakery. She'll get somewhere, but bless her heart, he's got two wives already."

Sherlock squinted his eyes at her. "How did you know that?"

"I just observed. Like you, I guess. I suppose my eidetic memory helps in some ways."

"Eidetic?" John asks.

"Photograpic, in layman's terms," Anabeth says. "She's a sweet old lady. Shame about her husband really. Almost married a guy like that once. Left me at the altar. Thank God he did too. I ran into him about four months back. Not exactly where I saw myself headed sixteen years ago. Sorry, I'm ramblin' again, ain't I?"

"Aren't," Sherlock corrected.

"Hmm? Oh yes. Sorry. I'm normally a lot more formal than this. Must be me missing home. Anywho, tea? If now's not a good time, it's understandable. We'll get to know each other eventually. I do live just downstairs. I know it's a basement apartm – no, I'm in the UK it's flat – a basement flat, but with the right paint job and furnishings, it'll be ju... Sorry, I'm rambling again. So, tea?"

"We were just leaving," the detective states grabbing his coat off the back of the door.

Clearly this message wasn't passed along to John, for he continued to sit in his chair looking like a deer in the headlights. "We were?"

"Yes, John. I need to go to the bank. Anabeth, you're welcome to join us."

"Well, I have been holed up here for the most part. I think a trip out is just what the doctor ordered."

* * *

**Shad Sanderson Investment Bank**

Anabeth glanced around. She'd been in here before, a few times actually. Not for years, of course. Something to do with a past file. She couldn't be bothered to remember. It was a dreadfully dull mission, one that even her handler thought would've lasted longer. And Alfie knew her potential.

"When you said we were going to the bank," John begins.

Anabeth has to stifle a true eye roll. "I might have only know him for just over twelve hours but from what I read on your blog, Holmes doesn't seem to be the type to run petty errands like this. My guess is he's got a case."

John chooses to ignore her reasoning as they hop on the escalator to the reception desk. It seemed the detective's name really could get him into places.

* * *

"Sherlock Holmes."

Anabeth looked up from her visual perusing. The office hadn't changed much in the two years she hadn't been here. The only thing really missing was the picture of his wife. Well, ex-wife now, the ring is missing too. Serves him right.

"Sebastian," Sherlock announces as shakes the man's hand.

"Hiya Buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?" He smiled the closed mouth smile that annoyed the hell out of Anabeth.

"These are my friends, John Watson and-"

"Anabeth Ryder. Been a while hasn't it?"

"Two years actually."

Sherlock stared at her emotionless. "You know him?"

"Of course," Anabeth says with a knowing smirk. "I know him a bit more..._intimately_...than you, though. Let's hope this meeting doesn't end up like last time, yes? Wouldn't want to embarrass you like that again."


	3. Just Take a Look

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter Two  
"Just Take a Look"**

**Shad Sanderson Investment Bank**

"So," Sherlock says conversationally, "you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot."

Seb shrugs. "Well, some. Not nearly as much as Annie-belle there, I assure you."

"I've been in London for the past six months," Anabeth quips with some spite. She never did like that nickname. "And before that I was strictly in Virginia. Family business and all."

"Flying all the way around the world twice in a month," Sherlock continues.

Sebastian scoffs. "Right. You're doing that thing. Yeah, we were at uni together," he says to the other two. "This guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick," Sherlock breathed.

"Annie-belle did something similar. No where near as impressive as this guy." Anabeth rolls her eyes. "This guy could look at you and tell your whole life's story."

"Yes," John says, nodding once with a glance at Sherlock. "I've seen him do it."

"Put the wind up everybody," Seb continues. "We hated him. We'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night."

"I simply observed."

"Go on. Enlighten me. Two trips all the way around the world. You're quite right. How could you tell? You're going to tell me there's a stain on my tie from a certain kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?"

"No. I-"

"Bet it was the mud on my shoes."

"Actually," Quinn snaps harshly. "We were talking to you secretary just outside. She told us."

That wiped the know-it-all smile off Seb's face. Embarassed once again.

"I'm glad you could make it over, we've had a break in." He stands and leads the out of the office. "Sir William's office. The bank's former chairman. It's been left here like a sort of memorial. It was broken into last night."

"What did they steal?" John asks.

"Nothing," Seb says stopping briefly. "They just left a little message."

Anabeth nods as she looks around. _Keycard entry._

Seb stopped in the middle of the office with that same tight-lipped know-it-all smirk (how did Anabeth find him attractive?) flanked by John and Sherlock. Anabeth took her time coming into the office, pausing briefly when she saw the message; a squiggly almost eight topped with a straight line on the wall and a straight line over the eyes of the painting.

The men left a moment later leaving Anabeth alone. After a glance around the office, she sits in the plush rolling chair, closing her eyes and clasping her hands together save for her forefingers which she pressed to her lips.

That's how Sherlock found her upon his return.

"Bored?"

"Thinking." Her icy eyes flashed open to catch his intrigued gaze.

"What do you see?"

"Let us start from the beginning, yes?" Quinn stands and goes to the floor length windows, openind one and stepping onto the balcony. "Keycard entry. Seb did not mention any unusual late night visits, so the intruder came in through the window. Obviously. Meaning he is athletic, it is a pretty high climb." She leans over the edge a slight smile on her face.

"He came in at 11: 33 and left a minute later."

She straightens and flashes him a smile before walking back in side. "Must be dealing with a professional then, hmm?" She points to the paint. "The message was left for someone whom comes in at midnight. Again, obvious." She stands in front of the paining and turns on her heel, well balls of her feet. "Most likely someone in that line of sight."

Sherlock stays to take a few pictures before he bounces out to figure out who the message was to.

* * *

"Two trips around the world this month," John says when they're reunited. "You didn't talk to his secretary. You said that just irritate him."

Anabeth shrugs. "Damn skippy. He called me Annie-belle."

"How did you know?"

"Did you see his watch?" Sherlock wonders.

"His watch?"

"The time is right but the date is wrong," the detective continues. "Said two days ago. Crossed the date line twice but didn't alter it."

"Within a month. How did you get that part?" John wonders.

"New Breitling," Anabeth answers. "Only came out this February. Bought my brother and his husband both one as their wedding presents."

"Okay," John says. "So do you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?"

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks."

"Hmm?"

"The graffiti was a message. Someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient. and.."

"He'll lead us to the intruder," Anabeth finishes.

"Obvious."

"There is three hundred people up there. Who was it meant for?" John questions.

"Pillars."

"What?"

"Pillars and the screens. Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot."

"Does it?"

"Course," Anabeth breathes. "Traders come to work at all hours."

"Precisely. Some even trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was left for someone who came in at midnight. Not many Van Coon's in the phonebook."

* * *

**Taxi on the way to Eddie Van Coon's Flat**

"How did you know Sebastian?" Sherlock asked as he stared out the window. "I wouldn't figure you for a girl with that taste in men."

"Still certain I'm not a call girl?" Anabeth shrugs and looks straight ahead. "I'm not normally. I met him at a pub after work. Of course, back then I didn't do what I do now. I guess we hit it off. Dated for about half a year, before his wife called the number on his phone. I might have made a scene when I dumped him. Momma raised me right. I wasn't gonna be the mistress."

The taxi pulled to a stop outside the building the flat was located in and the trio piled out. Anabeth ran ahead and buzzed him.

"So what do we do now?" John asks, after it was apparent Van Coon wasn't in.

"Just moved in," Sherlock says.

"Hmm?"

Sherlock points the label above Van Coon's. "The floor above. New Label."

"Could've just replaced it," John answers.

Anabeth gave him a strange look as Sherlock buzzed the floor above. "No one does that."

"_Hello_?"

Sherlock perks up. "Hi, um, I live in the flat just below you. I don't think we've met."

"_No, well, uh I just moved in_."

Sherlock shot John an _I-told-you-so_ look. "Actually, I just locked my keys in my flat."

"_Want me to buzz you in?_"

Sherlock bit his lip. "Yeah. And can I use your balcony?"

"_What_?"

* * *

Anabeth sprints down the hall, he speed unhindered by the four inch wedged platforms on her feet.

"How can you run in the those?" John calls out from behind her. He walks much more civilly trying not to draw attention to himself.

"Oh, I can do a lot more than just run in these," Anabeth quips suggestively.

The innuendo causes John to falter briefly, which gives Anabeth just enough time to pick the lock and slip in flat before the door shuts behind her, unbeknownst to her automatically locking behind her.

She's standing in the living room, her eyes closed, when Sherlock finds her.

"How did you get in here?"

She smiles. "I picked the lock. Much faster. Be nice and I'll teach you one day."

"Nice to know," he mumbled as he takes his turn around the flat.

_Champagne in the wine chiller. Likes to celebrate._

John buzzed for their attention. "Sherlock, Anabeth?" He buzzed again. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

They ignored him, moving deeper into the flat.

_Expensive hand soap in the bathroom. Bought for his girlfriend, no doubt._

Anabeth turns to say something to the detective, only to see him bust the bedroom door open.

"I could've picked that," she says passively following him into the room. They pause at the sight of Eddie Van Coon lying dead on his bed. "It is not a suicide."

Sherlock turned to Quinn with a slight look of admiration. "Yes. How did you know that?"

Anabeth smirked and tapped her nose. "You're a detective. _Detect._"


	4. Like a Piece of Meat

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter Three  
"Piece of Meat"**

* * *

**Eddie Van Coon's Flat**

"Do you think he lost the lot of money?" John asks as Sherlock dons on latex gloves. "I mean, suicide is pretty common among city boys."

"You don't know that it was suicide," Sherlock mumbles turning to the suitcase pushed up against the wall.

"Come on. The door was locked from the inside. You had to climb down the balcony."

"And I picked the lock and it locked behind me," Quinn said hovering over the consultant. "Killer could have gotten in that way."

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry." Sherlock stands nearly hitting Quinn as he did.

"Sorry," she breathed backing away.

"Look at the case, John. There was something tightly packed inside it."

John nods, turning back to the body. "Thanks, I'll take your word for it."

"Problem?"

John looks at him incredulously. "Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some blokes dirty underwear."

"Those symbols at the bank, the graffiti, why were they put there?" Sherlock inquired.

Quinn turned back to the body as the boys bounced back and forth, getting a bit miffed when Sherlock shoves her off to riffle through the man's pockets.

"What kind of message would everyone try to avoid? What about this morning, those letters you were looking at?" Sherlock questions as he pulls a wad of slobbery black paper from the victim's mouth.

"Bills."

"Yes. He was being threatened."

"Not by the gas board."

"Course not." Anabeth looks over in time to see a man join them in the room. "Looks like we've got company."

"Ah Sergeant, we haven't met," Sherlock say reaching out to shake his hand.

The man blatantly refuses, putting his hands on his hips. "Yeah, I know who you are. I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with the evidence."

Anabeth clears her throat. "Someone didn't get laid last night," she murmurs under her breath.

Sherlock gives her a warning look and hands over the evidence bag containing the paper. "I phone Lestrade. Is he on his way?"

"He's busy. I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant. It's Detective Inspector. Dimmick." DI Dimmick turned on his heel and left the room. "We're looking at a suicide."

"That does seem to be the only explanation of all the facts," John says glancing around the flat.

"Wrong! It's one possible explanation of some of the facts," Sherlock says looking between the two men. "You've got a solution you like but you're choosing to ignore any evidence that doesn't comply with it."

"Damn skippy," Anabeth quips earning strange looks for everyone within earshot.

"Like?" Dimmick requests.

"The wound's on the right side of his head," answers Sherlock.

"And?"

"Van Coon was left handed. Would call for quite a bit of contortion," he explains as he atempts to shoot himself in the right side of his head with his finger gun.

"Left-handed?"

"Oh come on!" Anabeth shouts. "All you had to do is look around. If it was a snake it would have bitten you, multiple times. Coffee table of the left-hand-side of the couch. The handle of the coffee mug is pointing to the left. The plug in the outlet is on the left. Pen and paper on the left side of the phone because he habitually picked it up with his right. Easier to write messages down that way; it's a hassle to switch hands during a phone call, especially with a corded phone."

"I think you've covered it, Anabeth," John says.

"Oh, let her continue, she's nearly to the bottom of the list," Sherlock retorts.

Anabeth smiled and gave a little curtsy. "Thank you, Holmes. In the kitchen, next to the piece of toast, there's a knife with butter on the right side of the knife, 'cause he spread it with his left. It's highly unlikely that a left handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Therefore someone broke in here, and murdered him. The only explanation of all the facts. Ergo, it was not a suicide."

"But the gun-"

"He was waiting for the killer," Sherlock tells. "He'd been threatened."

"What?"

"Today at the bank," John explains as Sherlock dons on his coat and scarf.

"He fired a shot," Anabeth says as she went to leave. "The bullet went through the open window. When the ballistics come back you'll find that the shot that killed Eddie Van Coon was not the one fired from his gun."

"Oh come on, what are the chances of that?" Dimmick asks.

Anabeth shrugged. "A lot better than you think."

"But if the door was locked from the inside-"

"Well, he wasn't stupid, was he?" Anabeth sneers. "He did try to keep the killer out. The killer just... found another way in."

"Then how'd he get in?"

"Good," Sherlock says as if talking to a petulant child. "Now you're finally asking the right questions."

* * *

"That, back there, that was impressive," John says as Sherlock flags down a taxi.

Anabeth gives a smile. "Thank you, John. I try my best."

"Are you two coming?" Sherlock questions from the open taxicab door.

Quinn's phone buzzes and plays the first bar of the Star Trek theme. It's a text from a blocked number but she knows who it is.

**Join me for dinner?**

She has to stifle an eye roll. As if he'd truly give her a choice. "Actually, I have a date. I will catch on with you two later back at Baker Street." With a curt nod she begins to walk towards their usual meet up place.

* * *

**A Small Townhouse Somewhere in London**

"I am here! What do you want now?" Quinn calls as she saunters into the study.

"Oh, Annie-belle, don't be like that," her caller says from behind the desk. "Anger doesn't suit you. You look too tense."

"You summoned me like a dog. I am not a plaything. Wrong choice of words." She shakes her head. "What do you want Jim? I have plans tonight, and work. I cannot miss another day. Calling in sick because it is that time of the month is one thing. But missing random days is beneath me."

Jim frowns. "I don't like you working there. I don't like people looking at my possessions like their a piece of meat."

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Oh, you own me now, do you?"

"Yes of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you left me. At the altar, Jim. Looking like a complete fool. I do not think you can claim me as yours anymore."

He frowned briefly before standing and circling her, He pressed a kiss to the sensitive part of her neck, right above her tattoo hidden beneath her dress. "But the fact that you came, proves I still can."

Quinn heaves a sigh. "I still have work. And a life. You said you do not want this affair to be too obvious. I cannot keep dropping everything and come to your every beck and call."

"I did make this meeting optional."

"No you did not. A meeting with you is never optional."

He giggled, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine. "You've got me there... Alright you can go. But I'll be in touch. And remember, I'm always watching." He spun her around and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. "Bye-bye, my little forever love."

Quinn flashes a hazy smile to the man before her. Her heels make a hollow echo in the vaulted ceiling-ed room as she leaves pausing at the door only to call out what she hopes is a convincing, "I love you."

* * *

**221B Baker Street  
**_**The next day**_

"I said 'Could you pass me a pen?'"

The sudden noise jolts Anabeth awake. She'd come home later than usual that morning having been suckered into cleaning duty since one of the custodians had called in sick. Of course, being on a case Sherlock was awake and had heard her coming in. He promptly jumped at the chance at having "someone whose not a complete idiot" on the case. She had a feeling that was as close to a compliment that she's get from him.

At the time she was exhausted and just wanted to shower and go to bed, and after some bargaining she managed to convince him to let her shower and nap for a little while. She got a text from him an hour into her "nap" saying he needed to bounce ideas off her. Somehow she ended up on the sofa sleeping much longer than normal.

"What? When?" John asks.

"About an hour ago."

"Didn't notice I'd gone out then," John says, grabbing a pen off a table and tossing it to Sherlock who caught it one handed without looking. "I went to see about a job at that surgery."

"How was it?"

"Great. She's great."

"Who?"

"The job."

"She?" Anabeth asks.

John spun around and smiled at the girl. She certainly was a sight to see. She was still clad in her sleep wear (hidden beneath a long black silk dressing gown), her hair was not straightened instead it looked a mess and in need of heavy brushing. "How'd you sleep?"

"Ah ah ah. No changing the subject. Who is this she?"

"It. I meant '_it_'."

Sherlock rolled his eye. "Here. Have a look."

John reaches the laptop before Anabeth, who decides not to crowd the men with her half-dressed self, choosing instead to stare at the symbols some more.

"'The intruder who can walk through walls'," John quotes from the article.

"It happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat. Doors locked, windows bolted. Exactly the same as Van Coon."

"God. You think..."

"He's killed another one."

"Well, if we're going to see Detective Inspector Dimmick, I'm going to need to get changed." Anabeth spun around, the robe fanning out causing the ties to fall apart and reveal the baby doll lingerie hidden beneath it. She smirks at the dumbfound look on both men's faces. She managed to stand there for a full two minutes before Sherlock spoke up.

"Thatsprobablyagoodidea."

"Come again?" Anabeth asked, a hint of humor in her voice.

He cleared his throat. "That's probably a good idea."

"Thought that's what you said," she spoke with a wink. She chuckled as she left the room, wrapping herself back up.

Like a piece of meat indeed.

* * *

_Hello my little readers. I just want to thank you all very much for reading and favoring and reviewing this story. Really means a lot to me. I hope you guys are enjoying this little story! Thanks so much, loves!_


	5. All of London

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter Four  
"All of London"**

**Scotland Yard**

"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist murdered in his flat," Sherlock says while typing away on DI Dimmick's laptop. He turns it around to show the article from earlier. "Doors looked from the inside."

"You've got to admit it's similar," John speaks from beside the consultant. "Both men killed by someone who could walk through solid walls."

"Detective, do you really think this is just another city suicide?" Anabeth asked.

Sherlock sighed. "You have seen the ballistics report, I suppose. And Anabeth was right, was she not? The bullet wasn't fired from his own gun."

"No," the detective answered.

"No. So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel."

At the word gospel, Quinn smacked herself in the forehead. "Yesterday was Wednesday, was it not?" At John's nod she winces "Crap, I promised Momma I would go to Confessional. Gallivanting around with you all, I forgot," she says pointedly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He's been doing that a lot since he met Anabeth... Turning back to the task at hand he leans forward, bracing himself on the desk in front of him. "I just handed you a murder inquiry. Five minutes in his flat."

With a sigh, Dimmick gives in.

* * *

**Brian Lukis' Flat**

Quinn found herself ogling at the clutter found in the newest victims flat. Research, she told herself, it is all for research. Still, it was a lot of books. She enjoyed reading but not this much.

"Four floors up." Sherlock smiled. "That's why they think their safe. Put a chain across the door, bolt it shut, they think their impregnable. They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in."

"I don't understand," Dimmick states as Sherlock brushes past him.

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Of course you do not. Do try to keep up. Our killer is a climber. A highly skilled one at that."

"What are you doing?" Dimmick asks as Sherlock opens a skylight.

"Clings to the walls like an insect. That's how he got in."

"What?"

"Climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight."

"What? You're not serious. Like Spider-man?"

Quinn shook her head. "He climbed up six stories and jumped a balcony to kill Edward Van Coon."

"Ha ha ha h-hold on-"

"And of course that's how he got into the bank; he ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace," Sherlock continues. He turns around and pauses in doorway leading out. "We've got to find what connects these two men." A bright orange book catches his eye. He opens it briefly before snapping it shut and storming out, leaving his two comrades to follow him.

* * *

**221B Baker Street**

Quinn pranced about the kitchen, not having eaten in nearly twenty-four hour, her stilettos tapping a non-rhythmic staccato beat as she gathers the ingredients for a bacon butty, proud of herself for remembering the term. As the bacon sizzled in the pan and the bread toasted, she tuned into the boys' conversation.

"So the killer goes into the back, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon, Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in, hours later he dies."

"The killer finds Lukis at the library, he writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen... Lukis goes home..."

"Late that night he dies too."

"Why do they die, Sherlock?"

Quinn placed her finished bacon on her toast and took it out on a plate and to the sitting room on a plate. "Well, that is the question, is it not? The cipher will tell us. I have seen these markings before. But I do not remember where. We figure the cipher, we find the killer."

* * *

"The world's run on codes and ciphers, John. From the million pound security at the bank to the pin machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment," Sherlock explains as they round the fountain.

"Yes okay, but-"

"But it is all computer generated," Quinn says, her voice devoid of the usual emotion. Sherlock takes note of this and files it away for later use. "This code is too ancient for modern code breaking. Which is the point. Would not want the world knowing their secrets, would they?"

"Then where are we headed?"

"I need to ask advice," Sherlock says as they start to climb the stone stairs.

John's eyes widen in shock. "What? Sorry?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You heard me perfectly. I won't say it again."

"You need advice?"

"On painting yes. I need to talk to an expert."

"Couldn't you just ask Anabeth? Why did we have to come here?"

"I'm afraid Miss Ryder doesn't possess the expertise I'm seeking."

The rounded the corner of the building, spotting a young kid spray painting.

"Part of my new exhibition," the kid says as he continues to spray.

"Interesting," Sherlock replies as he digs in his jacket for his phone.

"I call it 'Urbanbloodlustfrenzy'." He says the phrase like it's a single word.

"Catchy," John speaks with a hint of sarcasm.

"I got two minutes before a community support officer comes round that corner. Can we do this while I'm working?"

Sherlock holds out his phone. The kid takes it after tossing a can to John.

"Know the author?" Sherlock asks.

"Recognize the paint. Michigan hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."

"Yes, yes," Quinn says impatiently. "Now what about the symbols? Do you recognize them?"

"Not even sure it's a proper language."

"It is, I assure you. Now two men have been murdered. That cipher is the key to finding their killer."

"Well, come on, this is all you had to go on. It's hardly much, now is it?"

"Are you going to help us or not?" Sherlock barked.

"I'll ask around."

"Somebody must know something about it."

"Oi!"

The foursome looked over to see two officers rushing towards them. Sherlock, Quinn and the kid booked it. When they made it away safely the kid latched on to Quinn's arm giving her a huge smile.

"Are going to be there tonight?"

Anabeth smirked. "Damn skippy. See you there?"

"Wouldn't miss it." He left them then leaving a red hand print on her arm. Quinn frowned at it. It looked like it might be sore in the morning, especially after tonight...

"Have you slept with everyone in London?"

Quinn blinked at the bluntness of Sherlock's question. "I have not slept with you, now have I?"

There was that emotionless voice again. He could add a stiffer posture to the mix as well. There was something military about it.

* * *

**221B Baker Street**

The slamming of the door was the only warning Quinn and Sherlock received before John stormed into the flat.

"You've been a while," Sherlock stated.

"Yeah, well you know how it is; custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they? Just formalities. Fingerprints. Charge sheet. And I've got to be in magistrate's court on Tuesday," John rambled.

"What?"

"Me, Sherlock! In court! On Tuesday! They're giving me an ASBO!"

"Good. Fine."

"You can tell your little pal he's welcome to own up anytime."

"It's simple but I still can't place it." Sherlock slams his book closed and dropped it somewhere before shoving John's coat back on him. "No! I need you to go to the station and ask about the journalist. Personal effects would've been impounded. Get a hold of his diary or something that would tell of his movements. I'll go see Van Coon's PA. You retrace their steps and somewhere they'll coincide.

Quinn nods. "Good. I will go see one of my contacts. This whole Hong Kong thing has got me missing her. Perhaps she will give me some insight. I have been needing to brush up my Mand..." Her eyes widen in realization before she starts running in the opposite direction. "Catch you later!"

* * *

**The West End**

"Two men travel back from China both head straight for The Lucky Cat Emporium. What did they see?" John asks.

"It's not what they saw," Sherlock responds folding up the napkin with his notes of the Chinese numbers on it. "It's what the both brought back in those suitcases."

"You don't mean 'duty free,'" John states. A waitress appears beside him with his food. "Thank you," he breathes.

"Think about what Sebastian told us," Sherlock says leaning forward after the woman had left, "about Van Coon, about how he stayed afloat in the market."

"Lost five million..."

"Made it back in a week. That's how he made such easy money," he says nodding toward the shop across the way.

"He was a smuggler," agreed John, as he popped a bite in his mouth.

"It would've been perfect, businessman making frequent trips to Asia. Lukis was the same, a journalist writing about China. Both of them smuggle stuff out, The Lucky Cat was their drop off."

"But why did they die?" John wonders. "It doesn't make any sense. The both turned up at the shop to deliver the goods. Why would someone threaten them, and kill them, after the event, after they've finished the job?"

The question had been brewing in Sherlock's mind as well. If everything had gone according to plan, why would they end up killed? There was no point... Unless... He smiled. "What if one of them was light fingered?"

"What do you mean?"

"Stole something, something from the hoard?"

"But the killer doesn't know which one took it, so he threatens them both." John glances out the window, pausing when something catches his eye. "Is that Anabeth?" he asks.

Sherlock follows his friends gaze to the flat next to The Lucky Cat and sure enough there stood the woman with her straight black hair in its ever present ponytail. She knocks on the door, having already buzzed the inhabitant, waited a moment before walking away and down a nearby alley. Sherlock glimpses at the sky. "Remind me," he says, "when was the last time that it rained?"

* * *

Sherlock runs his thumb across and exposed corner of the phone book. "It's been here since Monday." He stands and rings the bell briefly in hopes that Quinn was already inside. Needless to say she wasn't. Turning abruptly, he followed the path Quinn too to the alley behind the apartment. "No one's been in that for at least three days."

"They could have gone on holiday."

"Do you normally leave you windows open on holiday?" Quinn asks from the fire escape.

The two men looked up to see the (have we come to a consensus on her occupation?) look down upon them. Sherlock took a few steps back before getting a running start and jumped to grabbed the ladder for the fire escape. He scaled it quickly and joined her.

"Impressive. Now, do it in seven inch stilettos."

"I'll pass, thanks."

"What if she had a cat?" John asks.

"Soo Lin did not have a cat," Quinn replied as they slipped in the window.

* * *

_And here's another chapter. Thank you guys for reading and following and a shout out to Fuchsia Grasshopper for their review. Stay clever. -Lyra_


	6. Oranges

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter Five  
"Oranges"**

**Soo Lin Yao's Flat**

Quinn winced at the sound of Sherlock knocking the vase off the table next to the window. The wet spot on the rug caught his attention. "Someone else has been here. Somebody else broke into the flat and knocked over the vase, just like I did."

"My father helped Soo Lin Yao escape from the Black Lotus crime syndicate," Quinn says as she checked the drier. The clothes smelled heavily of mildew. "Back before he was promoted. After that, the only person she would talk to was me or my brother, Alfie."

The doorbell buzzed. "Do you think maybe you two could let me in this time?"

Sherlock ignored John's pleas as he felt the fabric hanging on the door. "Interesting."

"Could you not keep doing this please?" John begged. Again his cries were ignored.

Quinn went to the counter and scribbled a note in Mandarin before turning around in time to watch Sherlock choke back a gag brought forth from the smell of rancid milk. She had to stifle a giggle. "Should have checked the date."

"We're not the first," he says ignoring her.

"Obviously. She would be at the museum if we were. Somebody is after her." She walked over to an older photo of Soo Lin and her brother.

"Size eight feet," Sherlock states, "small but athletic."

"Small, strong hands," Quinn whispers analyzing the hand print on the glass. "Our acrobat."

"Why didn't he close the window when he lef- oh... Stupid, stupid! He's still here." He looked around spotting the changing screen in the corner. Slowly walking towards it, he reached out, and when his fingers graced the edge, pulled it aside to reveal an empty space behind it. Behind him, Quinn gasped and began choking.

He spun around to spy the killer choking Quinn with a piece of white fabric. He didn't move a foot before Quinn picked her foot up and stomped on the assailant's foot. He loosened his grip just enough for Quinn to pull what turned out to be Soo Lin's dish towel from his hand. She managed to spin around before the man gripped her neck and threw her into the vanity across the room. The mirror shattered on impact, slicing through the silk of her dress and giving Quinn a two inch long cut on her left shoulder blade.

"Anytime you want to include me!" John calls through the mail flap.

"John!" Sherlock tries. The call, however, is too weak to be heard by him.

Standing up straight, Quinn tore herself from the pain in her shoulder to the scene of Sherlock now being strangled by the killer. Shaking the glass from her hair, she bound over to them, kicking the smaller man squarely in the chest, effectively causing him to back off.

"-MASSIVE INTELLECT!"

The move cost Quinn her balance, allowing the man to slip something in Sherlock's coat pocket before slipping back out the window.

Sherlock pulled the towel from around his neck and started hacking trying to bring air back into his lungs. He sits up and slips his hand into his pocket pulling out a black origami lotus.

"He was not planning to kill us," Quinn says breathless.

"Certainly felt li..." he clears his throat, "like he was."

"Strangulation is not his M.O. We need to find Soo Lin. Before he does." She held her left hand out to him to help him up. Her took her up on her offer and clasped it. Needless to say, she pulled him up but with a slight wince as the move tugged at the newly made wound.

"Are you hur... ahem... hurt?"

"Please do not feel like you must feign worry over me. It is not needed. I am fine." She pulls her hair out of the knot holding it on the crown of her head.

"Best not to ment... ahem... mention this t..." he coughed, "to John."

"Agreed."

Sherlock opens the front door, clearing his throat once more. "The uh milk's gone funny, washing's starting to smell, somebody left here in a hurry three days ago."

"Somebody?" John asks.

"Soo Lin Yao," Quinn says from behind Sherlock. "We have to find her."

"But how exactly?"

Sherlock bent down, drawing in a deep breath and picked up and envelope from the ground.

**Soo Lin,** it read, **please**** ring me. Tell me you're OK. Andy. **

The Consulting Detective flipped it open.

**National Antiques Museum**

"We can start with this," he says holding it up.

"You've gone all broken. Are you getting cold?" John asks, finally noticing his friend's distress as the trio head down the street.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I'm fine."

* * *

**National Antiques Museum**

"When was the last time that you saw her?" Quinn asks as she paces the Asian wing of the museum.

"Three days ago," Andy answers, "Here at the museum. This morning they told me she'd resigned. Just like that. Left her work unfinished."

"That does not sound like the Soo Lin I know. This museum was her life. Was she acting any different when you last spoke?"

Andy shook his head. "Not that I could tell."

"What was the last thing she did on the final afternoon?" Sherlock asks.

"She was working on those tea pots, was she not?" Quinn questions jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

Andy nods and motions for them to follow him. He leads them to the back storage area.

"She does this tea ceremony for the tourists," he explains as he flips on the light. "So she would've packed up her things and put them in here." He ushers the group to where he knew Soo Lin would've put her things.

The marble statue hiding in the shadows pulls Sherlock's attention away from whatever Andy was about to say. The cypher covers her.

"Oh dear Lord," Quinn breathes behind him.

* * *

"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao," Sherlock states as they leave the museum.

"If she's still allive," John retorts.

Quinn shoots a glare at John. "Your pessimism is not amusing."

"Sherlock!"

The trio pause on the landing and turn around.

"Sherlock!" The kid from earlier came running towards them.

"Ah look who it is," John quipped.

"Found something you'll like," the kid says breathless walking past him.

Quinn freezes remembering that she does in fact have a steady job every night. "Holmes. Promise me you will find Soo Lin."

Sherlock looks at her curiously, trying to decipher her emotionless face, not even her eyes held a drop of worry. She was good. Another something to add about the enigma that was Anabeth Ryder. "You can't work."

"Excuse me?"

"You're arm," he points out. "It might not have bothered you earlier, but it is now. I can tell by the way your shoulders are set." True enough, Quinn had taken up a slightly different posture unconsciously, so as to relieve the slight pain and lack of comfortableness from her injury. "There's no way you'll be able to hold yourself up. Plus it's too raw for any amount of make-up. Wouldn't want your boss to think your boyfriend's abusing you, do you? Bad form. So the floor routine is out as well."

"I cannot just not show."

"Call in sick. You'll be doing yourself a favor."

* * *

**Underground Skate Park**

Technically, it probably wasn't originally a skate park, but with years of wanna-be "cool kids" covering it in their 'tags' and whatnot, it's what it ended up being.

"If you want to hide a tree, then the best place is in a forest," chides Sherlock. "Wouldn't you say? People would just walk right by, not knowing, not able to decipher it."

"There." The kid points ahead of him. "Spotted it earlier."

"And that's the exact same paint?" he questioned.

"Yeah."

"If we're going to decipher this," Sherlock begins, "we're going to need more evidence."

* * *

Quinn had placed herself with John under the ruse that spending time with a fellow soldier would be good for her. That and she needed to talk to him about the "she" from earlier.

"She's no one," John pushes for the umpteenth time as they walk down the train tracks.

"Fine," Quinn finally relents. "I will not ask again."

"Good."

A comfortable silence settles between them. It doesn't last long, however, for John looks over and catches the slight pained look on Quinn's face.

"What happened to your arm?"

She shrugged. "I saw a spider and jumped, lost my balance and crashed into Soo Lin's vanity. The mirror shattered and now my shoulder blade is sore. It is no big deal. I have had worse."

He paused. "Let me see it."

Quinn shook her head, continuing on. "It is fine, John. Figuring this code before Soo Lin shows up dead is more important than me babying a wound."

"Fine. But you will let me see it when we return to the flat." There was finality to his voice that impressed Quinn. "If Sherlock said something about it, it has to be bad."

"Holmes is a worry wart."

"No," John retorted. "Sherlock doesn't care. Much less about someone he met three days ago."

"Look," Quinn says raising her hand.

"No you look-"

"Oh, do shut up. It is one of your worst qualities. Look there." She points to a brick wall just ahead of them.

The markings are hard to make out in the shadows but with a quick shine of John's torch, her suspicions are confirmed. One quick swipe with her eyes and the sequence is forever imbedded in her head. Still, John takes a picture with his phone just for good measure.

He places a few calls on his mobile before he realizes that the receiver wasn't going to pick up.

* * *

"Answer your phone, I've been calling you," John calls out as soon as he and Quinn are within earshot of Sherlock.

They race back to the wall. A brief thought passes through Sherlock's head wondering how Quinn can still be wearing those heels after walking all day in them. Most women would be complaining by now.

"It's been painted over," John says as they return.

"Obviously," Quinn breathed. "Is this what you have to put up with all the time?" She receives a brief nod from the consultant. "My handler would never say something that obvious."

Sherlock raised a brow at her choice of words but didn't comment.

"I don't understand. It was," he touched the now black wall with a finger, "here. Ten minutes ago. We saw it a whole lot of graffiti."

"Somebody doesn't want me to see it." Sherlock spins swiftly and places his hands on either side of Quinn's face, she being the closest to the detective.

Her breath quickened. She didn't like being this close to people she just met. "Holmes, what are you-"

"Shh. Anabeth, concentrate. I need you to concentrate, close your eyes."

"What? Why? I'm not-" She was cut off by him moving his hands down to her upper arms, pressing on her scrape lightly as he passed it. Oh, so that's what this was about. "What are you doing?"

He started to spin her around with himself being the focal point. "I need you to maximize your visual memory. I need you to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yes."

"Can you remember it?"

"_Yes._"

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Damn skippy."

"How much can you remember it?"

"All of it. Do not worry."

"Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate."

"It is a good thing that I am not average then, is it not?"

"Really?" He didn't sound like he agreed with her. She'd have to fix that.

Quinn shrugged out of his... embrace, for lack of a better word, and backed away. "Eidetic memory, remember? Besides, John took a photo."

* * *

_A/n: Big thank you to theladyofthelost, YouCanButterMyToast, and Dream01 for thier thoughts and comments. Hope you enjoyed!_


	7. Up the Waterspout

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter Six  
"Up the Waterspout"**

**221B Baker Street**

"Always in pairs," Sherlock says as he stares intently at the wall of blown up photos. "Numbers... come with partners. Why did he paint it so near the tracks?"

"No idea," John breathes as he works on Quinn's shoulder.

"Ow!"

"Sorry, but you deserve it."

"I deserve it?" Quinn breathes in deep stifling another outcry of pain. "What the hell did I ever do to you to deserve this?"

John rolls his eyes as he injects the numbing agent around the gash. "You should've had me look at it the moment it happened."

"Sorry," she snapped. "I was a bit busy trying not to be hurt by the spider."

"That's not an excuse. Stay still, wouldn't want to _hurt_ you anymore."

She rolled her eyes as he swiftly closed up her wound. She tried to pay attention to Sherlock's rambling to himself but the gentle tugging on her shoulder grabbed her attention. It would've been done as soon as they returned to the flat but she insisted on helping Sherlock translate the numbers and John took the chance to get in a few winks. Eventually, though, John had woken up and insisted himself on checking out her shoulder.

"Whatever was stolen he wants it back. It's all somewhere within this code."

"Yes the book code," Quinn breathed. "Which we cannot crack without Soo Lin."

"Book code?" Sherlock asked turning to face her.

Quinn pulled the shoulder of her dress back up and shot him a blank stare. "Yes, book code."

* * *

**National Antique Museum**

After changing quickly into a less bloodied dress and shorter heels, the trio took a trip to the museum where they met up with Andy again.

"Two men who traveled back from China were murdered," Sherlock informs harshly. "And their killer left their messages in Hangzou numerals."

"Soo Lin Yao is in danger," John speaks up. "And that cypher, it was just the same pattern as the other. He means to _kill_ her as well."

"Look, I've tried everywhere. Friends, colleagues, I don't know where she's gone. I mean she could be a thousand miles from here."

"Thanks, Alfie," Quinn breathes into her cell phone. "Sorry to bother you on your honeymoon." She turns back to the group. "He is right. If neither me nor Alfie can find her, then he certainly would not be able to find her." She glances at Sherlock who was staring off into the distance. "What are you looking at?"

He points to a glass case right behind her. "Tell me more about those teapots."

"Well, the pots were her obsession," Andy explains. "And they need urgent work. If they dry out then the clay will start to crumble. Apparently you just have to keep making tea in them."

"Yesterday only one of those pots were shining," Sherlock observes. "Now there are two."

"She will be back tonight to do another one," Quinn states."

Sherlock nods. "So now we wait."

* * *

**Later That Night**

"You saw the cypher. You know he is coming for me."

Quinn gives a nod. "You have been clever at hiding from him. But I do not understand why you did not contact me or Alfie for help. We can get you away safely."

"I had to finish," Soo Lin says, "to finish this work. It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me."

"Who is he?" Sherlock asks. "Have you met him before?"

Soo Lin gives a soft nod. "When I was a girl. He came back from China. I recognize his signature."

"The cypher."

"Only he would do this. Zhīzhū."

"Zhīzhū?" John asks.

"The spider," Sherlock and Quinn respond at the same time, Quinn more pointedly than him. John looks at Quinn suddenly getting her story about her shoulder.

Soo Lin removes on of her shoes and shows Sherlock her heel. "You know this mark?"

"Yes," he states in reply. "It's the mark of a Tong."

"Hmm?" This is John, the ever curious one.

"It is an ancient crime syndicate based in China," Quinn reveals.

"Every foot soldier bares the mark. Everyone who hos for them."

"Hos?" John asks softly. "You mean you were a smuggler."

"I was fifteen, my parents were dead. I had no livelihood, no way of surviving day to day, except to work for the bosses."

"Who are they?" Sherlock wonders.

"They are called the Black Lotus," she tells. "By the time I was sixteen I was taking thousands of pounds worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. I managed to leave that life behind me. Mr. Quinn brought me to England. He got me a job here. Everything was good. A new life."

"Until he came looking for you."

"Yes, I'd hoped after five years, maybe they would have forgotten me. But they never really let you leave. In a small community like ours, they're never very far away." She wiped away her tears as Quinn rubbed her back soothingly. "He came to my flat. He asked me to help him, to track down something that was stolen."

"You've no idea was it was?" John inquires.

The young Chinese woman shakes her head. "I refused to help."

"You knew him well when you were living back in China?"

Soo Lin nods "Oh yes. He's my brother."

Sherlock gives Quinn a look that simply states, "That would've been nice to know earlier."

She shrugs giving Soo Lin's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus or starve on the streets like beggars." Soo Lin takes a deep breath. "My brother has become their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan; Black Lotus General." She glances up briefly at her company. "I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work, and the cypher was waiting."

Sherlock stood and pulled out the pictures of the wall and cypher out, sliding them in front of her.

"Can you decipher these?"

"These are numbers," she explains.

"Yes I know."

"Here the line across the man's eyes; it's a Chinese number one."

"And this," Quinn points to the other piece of the cypher, "is fifteen. You taught me the numbers remember? But can you tell us what this means?"

"All the smugglers know it," Soo Lin explains. Quinn had to fight from losing her patients with the younger woman. "It's based upon a book."

Suddenly the lights go out, and Quinn sighs resignedly. "Keep an eye on her. Do not let her out of your sight," she orders a demanding tone in her voice before running out of the room.

"Anabeth!" Sherlock whisper-yelled, but she'd already left the room. He followed her out into the main hall, ignoring John's calls of his name from behind him.

He gets to the other side of the statue found there before he realizes he has no idea where she went or where he could be. He spun to face the statue debating on calling out her name again when a gunshot rang out behind him. As he dived for the solace of the statue two more shots were fired off, one decidedly closer than the other. As he backed up against the statue, he watched as Quinn came running towards him, small handgun in her hand.

Zhīzhū fired off two more rounds matched by one from Quinn.

"Dammit Holmes," she sighed as she. "I told you to stay put."

"Technically, you said to keep an eye on Soo Lin. She's fine," he states. "John's with her."

Quinn shakes her head and ducks as two more shots are fired from the balcony. She's quick to fire off three in response, narrowly missing him with each. "I hate handguns," she breathes.

Another shot aimed at them and Quinn fires back.

"Ten," she mumbles as she drops the now empty clip on the marble floor and digging into her pocketbook for her other one.

"I counted six."

She shook her head before standing and reloading. He picked up the empty clip and stuffed it in his pocket as he followed her to the evolution exhibit. Sherlock takes cover as the two shooters continue taking turns shooting.

"Careful!" he shouts. "Some of those skulls are over two hundred thousand years old! Have a bit of respect!"

Quinn comes to stand in front of him, the shooting on both sides ceasing.

"Thank you," he says loud enough for only her to hear.

She lets out a shaky breath which turns into a small giggle. "Oh god," she says catching her breath. "That was fun."

Sherlock looks at her strangely, taking in the excited glint in her eyes. It's gone a moment later and she's running. Back to the restoration room, back to Soo Lin. When the shot rings out, her steps falter in to nothing and she stops right outside the room. She squeezes her eyes and lets her hands hang by her side for an agonizing moment before pushing open the door and slowly walking over to Soo Lin's body.

The young Chinese woman had been laid gracefully upon her workspace, her eyes shut and her hand outstretched holding a black origami lotus.

It looked as if she was a sleep, well, except for the bullet hole in the middle of her forehead.

A hand is placed on Quinn shoulder and she looks up to see John giving her an apologetic look. She shrugged him off before turning sharply and leaving the room.

* * *

**Scotland Yard**

"How many more people have to die before you realize this assassin is out there?" Quinn questions harshly of DI Dimmick who walks past her without bothering to respond. "A young girl was gunned down tonight. That is three victims in three days. You are supposed to be finding him."

"Says the woman who shot up a museum," he mumbles beneath his breath.

"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis were working for a gang of international smugglers, the same gang my father saved Soo Lin Yao from five years ago, a gang called the Black Lotus, operating here in London, _right under your nose," _Quinn sneers at the man, her voice low and threatening.

"Can you prove that?" Dimmick wonders.

Quinn gives him a haughty glare. "Damn skippy."

* * *

_Okay so here's the dealio. I haven't posted for a long while and I am sorry. However here's a late Christmas present for those of you who actually are enjoying this story. Well, here's this and about four other chapters I'm posting today._


	8. American Psycho

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter Seven  
"American Psycho"**

**St. Bart's**

"What are you thinking pork or the pasta?"

Molly jumped at the all too familiar voice. "Oh, it's you," she says with a too bright smile.

"I'd stick with the pasta. Wouldn't be doing roast pork. Not if you're slicing up cadavers." Sherlock gives her a small smile, while Molly's falters.

"What are you having?" she asks.

"Don't eat when I'm working. Digesting slows me down," he responds as he spies the less than appealing food.

"So you're working here tonight?" Molly wonders.

"Need to examine some bodies."

"Some?"

"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis."

She glanced down at her clipboard. "They're on my list."

Sherlock gives faux gasp of shock as his eyes light up.

_Oh, I know that look. And whatever you're about to ask the answer is _no, Molly thinks to herself.

"Could you roll them out again for me?" he asks with a fake look of... whatever, Molly decided she didn't want to know as she glances down.

"W-well, their paperwork's already gone through." _That means no._

He starts to frown before he's sidetracked by something.

_Probably going to compliment me somehow, just like always. But this time I won't give in._

"Oh, you changed your hair," he says pointing it out.

"What?" _My hair looks horrible. I just pulled it up to keep out of my way._

"The style. It's normally parted down the middle."

"Yes, well-" _Don't give in. Don't give in. Don't give in._

"No, it's good. It, um, it suits you better this way."

Molly smiles and blushes. _Damn you, Sherlock, damn you and your perfect cheekbones and your coat and you. Damn you_, she thinks as she leads him down to the mortuary.

* * *

Molly unzips the bag containing Brian Lukis, giving the lifeless man a solemn smile.

"We're just interested in the feet," Sherlock says as he strides into the sterile room with two people she'd never met at his heels, a man and skimpily dressed woman.

"The feet?" Molly asks confused.

Sherlock shoots her a demeaning look changing it into something softer before she turned. "Yes. Would you mind if we had a look at them?"

With a huff she unzips the bottom of the bag and moves the plastic so they could see all of them. On the heel of his right foot was a tattoo of a black lotus. With a disdainful smirk, Sherlock asks for Van Coon's feet to be revealed. When the new man saw the feet, his brow raised.

"Oh, so-"

"So, either they decided to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlor, or I'm right." Molly was taken aback but the condescending and entirely pissed off tone in the American woman's voice. So she was working with Sherlock.

"What do you want?" the man asks.

The woman goes to open her mouth but Sherlock beats her asking for every book in both men's apartment.

* * *

**221B Baker Street**

"It's not just a criminal organization, it's a cult," Sherlock says hanging up his coat on the door. "Her brother was corrupted by one of the leaders."

"Yes, Soo Lin said the name," John says from his seat.

Quinn took a seat on the sofa. "Yes, General Shan."

"We're still no closer to finding to finding them."

"Wrong," Sherlock and Quinn say simultaneously. They share a look in which Sherlock's curiosity is piqued by her yet again that night and gives her the go-ahead to explain. "We have almost all we need to know," she explains. "Soo Lin filled in most of the missing pieces. Why did Zhīzhū need to visit his sister? Why did he need her expertise?"

"She worked at the museum," John answered.

"Exactly."

"An expert in antiquities." He shook his head like he should have gotten it sooner. Which, according to the other two in the room, he should have.

"Valuable antiquities, John," Sherlock explains further. "Ancient Chinese relics purchased on the black market. China's home to thousands of treasures hidden after Mao's Revolution."

"The Black Lotus is selling them."

* * *

"Check for the dates..." Sherlock mumbled to himself as he skimmed the list of items for auction at Crispian's. A pair of Ming Vases appear on the screen and Quinn jabs her finger at it.

"There! John, look," she says. He walks up to the other side of Sherlock using the chair and desk to keep his balance.

"'Arrived from china four days ago'," Sherlock reads. "'Anonymous'. Vender doesn't give his name. 'Two undiscovered treasures from the East'."

"One in Lukis's suitcase. One in Van Coon's."

Sherlock pulls up another search page. "Chinese antiquities sold at auction."

"There," Quinn says. "Arrived a month ago. Chinese ceramic statue. Sold for four hundred thousand. Congruent with Lukis's schedule. And the one below that. The painting sold for half a million, coinciding with Van Coon's schedule. The same with the rest of them."

John glances at her. She was right of course, he'd been checking himself, but as far as he saw she never took her eyes from the screen.

"So what if one of them got greedy in China?" Sherlock asked. "What if one of them stole something?"

"That's why Zhīzhū's come," John agrees.

There was a knock behind them drawing all their attentions around. "Yoohoo," Mrs Hudson calls. "Sorry to bother you boys. And you Anabeth. But are we collecting for charity?"

"What?"

"A young man's outside with crates of books."

"Dimmick," Quinn remembered. "Tell him to bring them up, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson gives a nod before she goes back down stairs.

Soon, they're surrounded by what is undoubtedly hundreds of books, their hope of figuring the code diminishing more and more with each crate that passed the doorway.

"The numbers are references," Sherlock begins to tell his partner.

"To books?" John guesses.

"To specific pages in a book and a specific word on that page," Quinn replies.

"Right. So fifteen and one..."

"Turn to page fifteen and it's the first word you read," continues Sherlock.

"Okay, so what the message?"

"Depends on the book. That's the cunning of the book code. Has to be one that they both own."

"Right, shouldn't take long," John uttered sarcastic. He half expected Quinn to say something about it as she seemingly did every time he used the device, but with a glance at her he knew she wouldn't. The (again, they've spent the majority of three days with the woman, and he still had yet to come up with an occupation suitable for her) was staring quite intently at the detective across from her, unblinking, but with a closer look, he could see the same traits Sherlock got when he reverted into his mind palace.

It made sense to him, she did just lose, well, he assumed she was a close friend. The way she reassured Soo Lin certainly told him they were close. He found himself apologizing yet again to her, his hand on her shoulder. He let it rest there for a moment and was about to remove it when she blinked rapidly and turned to face him.

"She was just an asset," she said emotionless before reverting back into herself.

His hand slid off her shoulder as he spared his flat mate a glance. The consultant was elbow deep in a crate of books seemingly unfazed by their conversation. Just so, John went back to work.

Meanwhile, deep in her head, Quinn ran her finger down shelves of books making note of which ones she spotted in both flats. They were in no particular order that she could see. Perhaps chronological, yes that seems – no she read that last week.

Her head was always like this. Jumbled with random facts and things she didn't need. The more important things though were clustered together. Filed away in a clean office area depending on what case they belonged to. She'd already gone through Soo Lin's file with a fine tooth comb, and there was nothing in there that hinted at what book as used for the code. She'd just gotten to the door to the library when John interrupted her. Just to apologize at something that couldn't be helped.

Soo Lin's death could not have been prevented. Zhīzhū would have found her eventually. And Quinn would not have been there remotely to prevent it.

Something in the scene before her catches her attention and she blinks rapidly, bringing herself back into reality.

"Cigarette," she pronounces.

Sherlock paused in his flipping of pages to stare at the woman questioningly. "Pardon?"

She points to the book in his hands. "The first word on the fifteenth page. Cigarette."

"Oh." She gives him a weak smile before resorting back into her head. John looked up at the pair and sighed. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

By the time Quinn came out of her head, it was light out. Sherlock was still riffling around in crates and John long gone. She blinked rapidly and stared at Sherlock's back as he reached up onto a higher shelf. Sometime through the night, he'd shed his suit jacket and now only wore a purple oxford. "A book that everyone owns." His fingers landed on a dictionary, about to pull it down when Quinn stopped him.

"Add," she says her voice hoarse from nonuse. "The first entry on the fifteenth page."

Sherlock sighs and turns to her. "So she does respond. Is there anything else you want to add?"

"It is not any dictionary, thesaurus, or reference book that I have ever read, and I have read a lot in multiple languages. Nor is it any translation of the Bible."

He heaves another sigh and scruffs up his hair. John walked in at that moment.

"We need to get some air," Sherlock says suddenly. "We're going out tonight."

"Actually," John dissents "I've, uh, got a date."

"What?"

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."

"That's what I was suggesting."

"No it wasn't," John rebukes. "At least I hope not."

"Where are you taking her?" Quinn wonders.

"The cinema."

"Oh, dull," she speaks the same time as Sherlock.

John looked between the two. "That's the second time you've done that."

"We do not plan it, I assure you," Quinn tells.

Sherlock hands the other man a small slip of paper. "Why don't you try this? In London for one night only."

John gave a halfhearted dry chuckle. "Thanks but I don't come to you for dating advice."

"Just do not take her someplace as predictable as the cinema." Quinn pulls out her phone. Three missed calls and four new messages.

**Brunch?**

**Where are you?**

**Have tea with me? Wait, you don't like tea... Coffee then?**

**Annie-belle, I'm worried. Has something happened?**

Quinn sighed. "I will be back in time for that outing, Holmes. I just need clean up and make a call." She leaves the flat typing away on her mobile.

**On a case. Can't talk now. Tomorrow I'm yours. -Annie**


	9. Promiscuous Girl

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter Eight  
"Promiscuous Girl"**

**Yellow Dragon Circus**

"Hi, I have two tickets reserved for tonight," John stated as he and his date, Sarah, approached the window.

"And what's the name?" asks the Ticketmaster.

John reaches for his wallet answering "Uh, Holmes."

The young man behind the counter turns around and reaches for the appropriate envelope. "Actually, I have four in that name."

John looks at the envelope in confusion. "No, I don't think so. We only booked two."

"And then I phoned back and got one for myself and one for Anabeth."

John sighed heavily, and turned to look at the consulting detective as he walked towards them with the (whatever she is) on his left arm. Anabeth had an apologetic look on her face.

"I'm Sherlock," he says holding his hand out.

"Uh," Sarah took his hand, "hi."

"Hello," Sherlock expresses before leaving them alone.

Anabeth stays behind to apologize. "I am sorry about this. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't have any of it."

John shook his head. "I should've known he was going to do this. Pardon me, ladies."

Anabeth turned to watch him walk away. "I'm Anabeth, by the way," she tells turning back around.

"Sarah," the other woman answers.

Anabeth smiles. "Well, it's lovely to meet you, Sarah."

"Likewise."

A moment passes silently as they look over to the two conversing men.

"How long have you and Sherlock been together?" Sarah questions.

"Oh!" Anabeth gave a half snort half giggle kind of laugh. "Oh, we're not together. I've known him all of four days. I just moved into the flat beneath theirs. I came up for a cup of tea with John three days ago and left following Holmes on a case."

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's just that-"

Anabeth waved her off. "Think of it as payback for crashing your date."

"What do you think they're talking about?"

She shrugged pulling her lips into a mischievous grin. "Let's find out, shall we?"

"-trying to get off with Sarah! Oh, hey," John says spying the two women climbing the stairs. "Ready?"

Anabeth giggled. "Awkward."

* * *

"You said circus," John whispers to Sherlock as the latter man looked about. "This is not a circus. Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is... odd."

"Give me a moment and I'm sure I can come up with a statistic or fact about Chinese circuses," Anabeth tells the man.

"This is not their day job," Sherlock reminds the other two.

John rolls his eyes. "No, sorry, I forgot, they're not a circus, they're a gang of international smugglers."

"The Western term "circus" isn't at all accurate," Anabeth begins," when describing a quote-unquote Chinese Circus. The Western term implies the use of clowns and large animals, such as tigers, elephants, et cetera, whereas the "Chinese Circus" has none. It traditionally being mainly made of various acrobatic and contortionist acts as well as more dangerous acts, such as tightrope walking, fire breathing, escapology, and so forth.

"With that being said, the tern "variety act" is much more appropriate. Though the Yellow Dragon _Circus_ sounds much more entertaining and mystic than the Yellow Dragon _Variety Act_. What we see tonight will most likely be very traditional..." Anabeth glanced around at the small crowd that had gathered around to hear what she had to say. "Erm... sorry."

The sound of a finger drum draws their attention back to the circle of candles. The beat quickly escalates in tempo as a short Chinese woman in a red and gold silk robe and traditional headdress walked to the center. The woman raises her hand as the tempo plateaus before stopping altogether. She lowers her hand as a much larger drum is beat upon.

The small woman moves quick and graceful to the cloaked item in the ring and uncovers it. Beneath the shiny cloth lie a large dragon-shaped crossbow and a basket of feathered arrows. The woman lifts an arrow and places it in its designated slot on the bow after showing the crowd. She removes a feather from the headdress and drops it into the silver bowl attached to the crossbow. The arrow races from its starting point to crash into a large decorative wooden board on the other side of the circle. The majority of the crowd gasped at the sudden onslaught.

A man dressed as a classical Chinese warrior steps into the circle and to the board. Two other men place him in chains and lock him "tightly" to the board.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," Sherlock breathed to his three companions.

"Mmm, Indeed," Anabeth agrees. "Crossbow's on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires."

The men finish chaining up the warrior and step back into the shadows. A gong is struck somewhere, the sound of it causing Sarah to jump and clutch John. She quickly realizes what she's done and jumps back in embarrassment still holding onto his arm, giggling at her stupidity. Anabeth rolled her eyes, _such an illogical reaction_, she thinks.

The small woman draws a dagger from the basket and punctured a sand bag hanging above her.

"She splits the sandbag, the sand pours out," Sherlock explains, "Gradually the weight lowers into the bowl."

Anabeth's eyes trace the rope attached to the sandbag to the weight attached to the other end.

The warrior makes a lot of unnecessary moaning and struggles more than he needed, all for a good show of course, before pulling out his hands one at a time. He finds the key and unlocks himself just it time to move out of the way of the arrow.

Sometime during the ridiculous acting, Sherlock gently grasped Anabeth's elbow and led her backstage. Out in the main room, the ringleader could be heard announcing the performance of the deadly Chinese bird spider. Anabeth murmured the phrase beneath her breath in Mandarin, deciding it sounded much better in its intended language.

"You speak Mandarin?" Sherlock questions as he eyes a warrior costume.

Anabeth shrugs. "I speak a lot of languages. And technically English is my second."

He looks at her, a look of intrigue masking his face. He has no time to comment as the woman from earlier enters and they dive into the costume rack. The woman checks her phone as Sherlock peers over the rack. He hits a few of the costumes, their hangers clanking together. The woman pauses glancing their way as the two spies duck down so as not to be seen. The woman leaves a moment later, the door slamming behind her.

Sherlock turns his head as he waits just another moment and spots a black bag full of spray paint. The very same spray paint used to make the code. He picks a can up and studies it before giving a little smirk.

"Oh dear," he says before shrugging back through the clothes. He goes to a vanity and sprays a single line of paint across the mirror. He glances at the warrior costume behind them through the mirror just in time to see him raise his sword to hit Anabeth in the head with it. Anabeth was staring off into space, her face bare and expressionless.

He shouts her name as he goes to deflect the hit. Anabeth was shoved out of the way and onto the ground, the skirt of her dress getting caught on something and tearing her skirt. The sound stopped her. Looking down at the aftermath, she winced. It wasn't a major tear, still the thought of it was enough to bring tears to anybody's eyes.

"This is a six thousand dollar Oscar de la Renta original, and you two idiots caused me to rip it." She slips her heels off and glances up right as Sherlock is kicked off the stage. His attacker jumps off with some kind of flip.

John comes running towards the man and shoves him into the stage. The man quickly throws John away and Anabeth takes that as her cue to jump down and put her ten years in the Marines to good use. She holds her own, managing to land a few bruising hits on him. But by that time, Sarah had decided to come to the rescue with a pipe from somewhere and hit the man over the head a couple of times.

Sherlock finally manages to catch his breath and sits up to pull off the mans shoe to reveal the Black Lotus tattoo.

Tossing the shoe away, he stands up and goes to pull Sarah along before thinking better of it.

"Come on," he says. "Let's go."

"I don't think I want to go anywhere with you," Anabeth snapped. "You ripped my dress."

* * *

**Scotland Yard**

"I sent a couple of cars," Dimmick says. "The old hall is totally deserted."

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus," Sherlock explains. "That tattoo that we saw on the two bodies, the mark of the Tong."

"Van Coon and Lukis were part of a smuggling ring," Quinn snaps. "One of them stole something whilst in China, something valuable, and now they want it back."

"These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back."

Dimmick glares at them. "Get what back?"

"Whatever it is that was stolen," Quinn breathes.

"So, you don't know?"

Quinn's eyes flutter closed and she draws a deep breath.

"Mr. Holmes," Dimmick say sharply. "I've done everything you asked. Lestrade; he seems to think your advice is worth something. I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have something to show for it. Other than a massive bill for overtime."

"Oh, please," Quinn whispers.

"And you Miss Ryder. Not exactly the cleanest woman in London."

Quinn shrugged. "Never said I was. I know I have a bit of a rap sheet. I have always been a bit of a promiscuous girl."

"Busted for prostitution, breaking and entering, and possession of a controlled substance twice. And that's in London the past six months alone. Shall we go back farther? I'm sure we can find some kind of outstanding warrant."

She gave him a disdainful smile. "I am pretty positive you wouldn't. There are all of six things I have been arrested for, four of which you already shed light onto, the other two involve me and a group of kids breaking into our high school and some defacing of public property. Everything else has been expunged. I know some people pretty high up in the food chain."

She turned and limped away her ankle suddenly in massive pain.

"I thought you said you weren't a call girl," Sherlock says catching up to her.

"I am not. I was trying to convince a friend of a friend who saved my life once to leave that particular line of business. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"While you stayed in it?"

She glances up at him. "I'm starting to think that you have no idea what I do for a living."

He ignores her. Yep, she hit a nerve. "And what of the rest of it?"

She shrugged. "Misunderstanding. Except for the B&E and defacing in America. That I actually did. And I would do it again given the choice... It was fun."

That caught him off guard and he paused, watching her walk ahead of him, a sway in her hips.


	10. Too Cold for Angels to Fly

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter Nine  
"Too Cold For Angels To Fly"**

**221B Baker Street**

"They'll be back in China by tomorrow," John says as he pushes into the flat and pulls his overcoat off.

Sherlock shook his head, glaring at all the evidence and books filling the small sitting room as he too stripped himself of his outerwear. "No. They won't leave without what they came for."

Quinn stalked around them, her movements suddenly a militaristic as John's. "We need to find their hideout. Rendezvous. Somewhere in this message," she brushed her now well-worn manicure of the cypher from the tracks. "Alfie would have known. Oh, what is the damn key?!" She spun on the balls of her feet and started riffling through the books.

"Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it," Sarah says suddenly.

"Yes, it'd be better for-"

"If you do not mind-"

"No, no, no, no, it's fine.-"

"-if you left now." Sherlock gives her a brief uncommitted smile.

"He's kidding," John rebukes.

Quinn glanced between the two men and shook her head. "No, he was not. Do not lie to the woman." She gave Sarah a once over before continuing her riffling. "Sarah, you do seem like a nice woman. Stay if you would like. I can work around you. John, you best spend some time with her."

"Is it just me or is anyone else starving?" Sarah asked.

"Ooh, god," Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

"Right," John mutters as he goes to the kitchen to look for something to snack on.

Quietness settles between the remaining three. Sherlock takes his seat at the table between the windows to continue his work on the cypher.

"So this is what you do for a living?" Sarah questions the detective as she takes in the plethora of papers covering the mirror. "You- you two and John? You solve puzzles."

"Consulting Detective," he snapped peeved.

Quinn frowned. "And no. I only live in the flat below." A clank in the kitchen draws Quinn's attention from Sarah to her date. Her frown deepens before she swiftly but silently walks out of the flat and to hers. She returned five minutes later with a serving tray (borrowed from Mrs. Hudson, hers were hidden in a box somewhere) with a picture, plate, and three glasses, one of which she took after she set the tray down. John looked over just in time to see her do this.

"Anabeth you are a saint."

Anabeth shrugged. "I couldn't stand to see your date go any farther to the dumps. It's nothing much, just homemade shortbread cookies and gingersnaps and half-n-half, um sweet tea and lemonade. But I'll warn you I am from the Southern States, so everything's really sweet and really fattening. To say we enjoy our butter is a bit of an understatement." She pours herself a glass before joining Sherlock and Sarah.

"And each pair of numbers is a word?" Anabeth hears Sarah ask.

"How did you know that?" Sherlock wonders.

"Well, two words have already been translated. Here." Setting the evidence bag containing the paper on the table, she points to the faint writing of a ballpoint pen.

"John. John!" Sherlock exclaims excitedly as he tears the paper out of the bag. "John look at this. She started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it."

"Frankly, I was more worried about protecting my asset."

Sherlock spared Anabeth a passing glance. "NINE... MILL..."

"Nine millions?" John asks.

Anabeth glances at the paper. "Nine million quid for what?" She gives a secret smile at her use of slang. Alfie would have been proud. The smile's gone as soon as it came and she's dashing down to her flat and to the stack of book on her mantle. It was easy enough to spot the book, the white and blue cover sticking out against the dark leather covers of her classic works.

She sprinted up the stairs, into the hall just in time to see Sherlock bound out the door. "Holmes!" She shouts, racing down the sidewalk. The pacing man pauses. "It's the _London A-Z_. A book that everyone would own. Easy enough to your hands on a copy. In fact, my Bestest Friend in the Whole Wide World gave it to me whilst still in America. As a gag gift of course. It's her way of teasing me about how I got us lost in the woods once when we were younger. Any time I go to a new place, she gets me something akin to a map or a gui-"

Sherlock grabs hold of her upper arms and gives a slight shake. "Rambling," was all he said.

"Sorry. Here," she hands him the book. "Page fifteen, entry one. Deadman. Zhīzhū was threatening them. Nine mill for jade pin dragon den black tramway. The cypher. That's what it says. However I have no idea what that means, or rather where it means."

"Has anyone told you, you are very annoying?"

"And yet you've drug me along for the past three days."

"Come on."

* * *

"John! John! I've got i- Ow! What was that for?"

Anabeth glared at the detective. "I, me, Anabeth, I got it before you even figured it out."

"Doesn't matter. It was the London A-Z," Sherlock explains as he bounds in to the sitting room. He pauses though. The bright yellow cypher covered the windows.

"Ah, hell," Anabeth breathes.

Sherlock pulls a map of London from his bookshelf and unfurls it. "Tramway." He runs his finger across the paper before tapping it. "Found you."

* * *

Since finding John and Sarah missing and the cypher in their place, Quinn's adrenaline had kicked in, her training coming to the forefront of her mind. She hadn't parted with her handgun since Soo Lin's murder, she simply kept it strapped to her thigh. Now as she approached the entrance to the tunnel (in her ruined Oscar de la Renta, something she was going to insist on Sherlock replacing) she felt the comforting weight of it in her hand.

"Do not fire that in here," Holmes warns. "If you miss, it'll ricochet."

Quinn looks him in the eye as best she can in the strange lighting. "Then I will not miss."

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" John shouts exasperated.

"I don't believe you!" It was the Ringleader lady from the circus.

"You should, you know," Sherlock calls out to them. "Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him."

The short Chinese woman turned around aiming her weapon to wear the two intruders stood just previously.

"How would you describe me, John?"

"Fishing for compliments, Holmes?"

Sherlock ignores her as he picks up a pipe lying on the ground. "Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"

Quinn rolled her eyes.

"Late," John murmurs.

"That's a semiautomatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand meters per second."

"Well?" the woman asked.

"Well," Sherlock jumps from his hiding spot and whacks a henchman with his pipe.

"Professor Plum in the conservatory with the lead pipe," Quinn quips.

Her companion continues as if she hadn't spoken. He was good at that. "The radius curvature of these wall is nearly four meters, if you miss the bullet could ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you."

Quinn's impatience gets the best of her and she makes to kick over a fire drum. Sherlock takes the initiative to untie Sarah. It's not three seconds before he is dragged back by a scarf around his neck. The Chinese and their scarves. As he struggled with Zhīzhū, Quinn fought off another assassin, the adrenaline pulsing through her veins, giving her enough of an artificial high to coerce that same rare half-snort-half-giggle sort of laugh from her lips.

The sounds of the crossbow firing and a fallen comrade distracts the assassin long enough for Quinn to receive the upper hand and hit the man in the head with the butt of her pistol. As she catches her breath she glances at John who was still tied to the chair they found him in, only now he was lying on the ground. "I told you I could do more than just run in heels."

John gave a quick nod and turned his attentions to Sarah. "Don't worry," he says to the hyperventilating woman. "Next date won't be like this."

* * *

**221B Baker Street**

"So nine mill-"

"Million."

"Million, yes. Nine million for jade pin dragon den black tramway."

"An instruction for all their London agents," Quinn explains to John as she sips on her glass of cocoa.

"A message," Sherlock continues. "What they were trying to reclaim."

"A jade pin," John clarifies.

"Yes," Quinn agrees. "Worth nine million pounds. It was to be brought to the tramway; their London hideout."

"Hang on." John glances up at the two standing up. "A hair pin worth nine million pounds?"

"Apparently," Sherlock replies. He sips his coffee.

"Why so much?"

"Depends on who owned it first."

John gives the suggestion some thought and nods. "So who stole it?"

"Eddy Van Coon," Sherlock tells.

"How did you figure that? Even the killer didn't know that."

"The soap," Sherlock and Quinn say together.

"The soap in Van Coon's apartment matches the same luxury brand as the hand lotion on his secretary's desk..." the woman informs further, though the last part was whispered as her phone vibrated in her jacket pocket.

**How good of a shot are you?**

Quinn frowned at the random question.

**I was the best sniper in my platoon. -Annie**

**Perfect. I need you to do me a favor tonight.**

**Who? -Annie**

**A short Chinese woman that knows too much.**

Quinn's jaw was clenched. She should have known he was behind this.

**Your will is my command. -Anniexx**

"Everything alright?" John asks.

"Hmm?" Quinn looks up. "Oh yes, fine. It seems, although, that even on my days off I cannot keep from working. Speaking of," she turns to the detective, "have you figured it out yet, Holmes? What I do for a living?"

Sherlock smirks. "John, meet Anabeth Ryder. Part time burlesque dancer, full time government agent."

"So you work for Mycroft?" John asks.

Quinn shrugs. "Yes and no. While I am currently under his command, and was relocated to here to watch over the both of you by him, I am first and foremost a CIA agent and I will have to report back to Langley about Soo Lin's death." She gave an impressed smile to Sherlock, one that didn't reach her eyes. "I am impressed though. For a moment I thought I had you stumped. I was almost disappointed. Burlesque dancer I am indeed."

**Can I see you tonight? -Anniexx**

**We'll both be busy. I thought you were smarter than this.**

**I am. I meant afterwords. I just got done with a case and I want you. -Anniexx  
Want to see you** -Annie**

**Stop by after the job's done.**

**Love you! -Anniexx**

Quinn leaves the two men who'd decided to carry on the conversation without her, and resorts to her apartment.

* * *

**Office building across from General Shan's hotel**

Quinn takes a deep breath. She was trained for this, to neutralize the enemy with minimal effort. Though, at this point in time she wasn't quite sure who that was.

Her job was simple. Wait for the text and pull the trigger once received. Simple in theory. It was the wave of guilt that came over her as she watched the body fall, slumped over into a victim of something that was so much bigger than her. Bigger than all of them.

Some time within the last six months, something had gone wrong. Not on her end, obviously not, she was too careful. No it wasn't her.

Her phone buzzed beside her.

**It's time.**

She takes another breath to center herself, corrects her aim, and fires.


	11. Harden My Heart

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter Ten  
"Harden My Heart"**

**A Small Townhouse Somewhere in London**

"You know," Anabeth snuggles into the warm body next to her, "I've missed you. A lot."

The body's indifferent. He always was, even before when they were younger.

"I was ready. We were ready... and then you left. Just walked right out of the ceremony. Leaving me embarrassed and alone, and I never saw you again. Why would you do that?"

She doesn't receive an answer, she doesn't expect one either. It's a moment before she heaves a sigh and slips out of the bed taking the loose sheet with her.

"Annie-belle? Where are you going?" he calls to her.

She sighs and shakes her head. "_Annie-belle_? Do I look like that same naive sixteen-year-old to you? Is that why you treat me like this? Like I'm just toy that you can play with when you're bored?"

"Anabeth, I-"

"Oh please, just don't. I have... I have to go. I'm gonna be late."

* * *

She was a sophomore when she first met him. Only fifteen. It had been opening night of her school production of _Annie._ The Meet and Greet was nearly over. She'd just finished talking to (she hoped) the last group of people and was ready to slip backstage to help clean up. There was a voice though that'd called out to her, caused her to stop.

"You're a hard girl to talk to."

His voice was accented heavily. Irish, if she had to guess. She was probably wrong.

"Tends to happened when you come from the family I do," Anabeth replied. "Everyone wants to say they know one of us."

He smiled. His eyes a warm brown, so friendly and inviting, coupled with the mischievous million watt grin, she liked him from the start. "You were spectacular up there."

She blushed deeply and looked away. "Thanks."

"No problem."

She felt his eyes on her face, unmoving. "What?" she finally managed to ask.

"You're much prettier without the wig. Ginger doesn't suit you as well."

"Oh," she gave a half-snort-half-giggle sort of laugh. "Thanks, I guess."

"And you shouldn't wear eye shadow; it takes away from the color in your eyes."

"Oh, um..." she shifted a bit nervously, unsure whether to be creeped out or flattered.

"Sorry... you were leaving before. I should probably let you go, one condition though."

Anabeth's brow raised. "What's that?"

"A date, with me. Saturday?"

"I don't even know your name."

"Jim Moriarty."

"Well, Jim Moriarty. I might have to take you up on that."

She turns around and continues to the double doors that led backstage. "Oh," she pauses and glances back. "And I'm Christabella Quinn. But everyone calls me Anabeth."

"I know," Jim tells her holding up his program. "See you tomorrow '_Annie_'."

She smiled. "Bye, Jim." The door shut softly behind her.

* * *

He came every night for the week the play ran. With flowers every time. At first it was roses, admittedly her least favorite flower, but she found him zeroing in on color and type until the night of the final show where he showed up with a large pink vase of purple dendrobium orchids. Her very favorite. She was putty in his hands from there on out.

Their date was simple, a trip to the theater to watch a local production of _The Phantom of the Opera_.

"It's nice watching the stage instead of performing for once."

Jim smiles. "After a week of brilliant performances like yours, I would expect so."

Anabeth blushes. "Well, I blame that on myself. The week of performances is in response to the response I got last year as Christine in our production of the _Phantom of the Opera_. Nobody realized just how powerful my voice was until opening night. The last two performances were full houses. And I was only a freshman."

"Sing something for me," he tells her.

She smiles at him. "You've heard me sing, for a week."

He chuckled. "I've heard you sing "It's a Hard-Knock Life". Sing something for the _Phantom_. Please."

Anabeth looks at him before giving a fake sigh. "Well since you said please... _In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came_," her voice was soft, almost like she was frightened she'd fail, "_that voice which calls to me, and speaks my name. And do I dream again? For now I find the phantom of the opera is there inside my mind._" By the time she finished, she managed to find strength within herself to show him the truth behind the whispers of her he'd heard about her for the past week.

He hated to hear her stop and before he could tell himself otherwise, Jim heard his voice pick up Erik's part. The smile that Anabeth gave him at that moment kept him from leaving her.

He did everything he could think of for the next year they dated to bring back that smile. The smile she gave when she was truly taken by surprise by something that he did.

She gave it all of thrice. Their first date, Christmas when he gave her his mother's locket, and on a trip to London during spring break of her Junior year. He took her to Her Majesty's Theater, where they watched the Phantom, after which he pulled her backstage to meet the cast. He had proposed to her then too, with a replica of Princess Diana's ring. The perfect cliché for his Princess Annie-belle.

* * *

**221C Baker Street**

Anabeth's fingers ran over the edges of the photo. They'd been the "It" couple since they met. Something happened, something she cared not relive, that caused him to leave her at the alter that June. She hadn't seen him since.

When her father had handed her the file on him, and Mycroft with that creepy all-knowing smile, she wanted to prove herself. She was always proving herself, but this was different. It was a chance to prove that Moriarty was not the cause of her emotionless state of mind. But with every passing meeting; no matter the briefness of it, with every buzzing text, with every draining phone call, she found it harder and harder to walk away sober.

He brought out the worse in her, always had. It's a natural defense, forgetting memories that cause you pain, emotional or physical. She thought she knew, that she remembered. She was wrong. She was only remembering now.

A soft knock on her door draws her attention away and she's up the stairs to open the door for her guest. The woman standing on the other side of the doorway is tall with frizzy orange hair attempting to be tamed by a black top hat and green eyes hidden behind black nerd glasses. Anabeth smirked.

"You look like a hipster."

Hannah shrugged. "It was a perm gone wrong."

"Obviously. You look like the Hatter." Anabeth moved to the side to let her Bestest Friend in the Whole Wide World (a self-given title) in.

"The only reason I'm keeping it."

Anabeth chuckled. It was refreshing to hear another American accent, though if she spent any more time here, Hannah'd be British sounding all the same. "So whatcha doing here Batsy?"

Hannah leaned against the back of the couch that was placed haphazardly in the center of the sitting room. "I have come to declare that Friday nights are now officially Girls' Nights and refuse to let you wallow in... this poor excuse for a flat by yourself. Go get dressed, we're going out."

Anabeth rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Alright Miss Bossy Pants. I'm already dressed."

"No, as far as I am concerned, you're naked. I will not be seen with you in that," she raked over the skirt and blouse combo. "It's jeans and a tee or nothing at all, and as I have no clothes for you..."

Anabeth rolled her eyes again.

"Come on, Harls, when was the last time you went out and had fun."

"The past three days."

"With a girl friend?"

"Two weeks ago, we had Girls' Night then."

"Exactly," Hannah snapped. "You spend too much time working. Spook or not, I will not allow you to waste away like some pathetic excuse for a human." Hannah frowned as her friends shoulders slumped knowing there was no point in arguing. "You okay Anabeth? I'm getting that depressed mood from you again. Is something wrong?"

Anabeth shook her head. "Just tired."

"You know I'm here for you right? Anything you need, I got you. Even if it means tracking down He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and shoving him off a tall building."

"That's why I love you, Wayne."

"Anytime, Quinn."

* * *

_I think that's enough for now and a wonderful time to stop. It's incredibly late but I hope you enjoyed it. Even though some of you might dislike me for this chapter. And oh. I think there's a link to a outfit/collage-thing from_


	12. When Did You Decide?

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter Eleven  
"When Did You Decide?"**

**221B Baker Street**

Hannah peered out into the sitting room from where she sat. The mid-morning sun peeked through the windows casting antic shadows across the room.

"Is this a usual thing? Breaking into the apartment above yours?"

Anabeth shrugged. "I have only lived here for roundabout two months. Besides, their fridge is bigger than mine."

Hannah shot her friend a death glare. "Full of body parts."

Anabeth rolled her eyes and pressed the lever down on the toaster. "In my defense, they were not there yesterday."

Hannah's greenish eyes lazed on Anabeth's stiff figure. It was hard these days to determine the difference between the Anabeth that tries to lock her feelings away and the one that was molded by the Corps. "Are you alright?"

A chair was pulled out across from the visitor. "Now, what makes you ask this time?"

Hannah shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe it's just the fact that it's been six months since you've been stateside and before that you were benched because of what happened in Brussels. You been working nonstop on this file; there isn't a check-in were the Company doesn't get any information. I guess I'm just worried you're overworking yourself. You've reverted back to Vulcan, and you're still undercover. It's starting to get, well, scary almost."

Quinn rolls her eyes again. "Hannah. I am fine. Do not worry over me."

"See, there you go. Anabeth Ryder would've said "Batsy, I'm fine. Don't worry." Something's bugging you."

"But I am not Anabeth Ryder. I am Anabeth Quinn."

"But you're undercover. You're supposed to act like Anabeth Ryder, the burlesque dancer who's pinning for her ex-fiance and gets laid like a hooker every night. You're supposed to _feel_, you're supposed to be _human._ Just pretend, will ya? For me? Pretend that you never met the likes of that bastard, pretend that your childhood wasn't lived in shadow of your parents! It's been sixteen-"

"I am not thirty-two, Wayne. I am only thirty, it has been fourteen years."

"Same difference."

"Look, Hannah, I love you. You know I do. But I do not feel like talking about this right now. Not with either denizens of this flat within hearing range."

"You never want to talk about it."

"Well, maybe there is a good reason for it."

"Oh?" Hannah raised a perfectly styled brow. "And what is that?"

"You would not understand."

"Try me."

Anabeth opened her mouth and shut it, looking like a fish. She racked her brain for anything that remotely made sense _coming from Anabeth_. But she couldn't. She really should have something by now. This isn't the first time this has happened. Hannah calls her out more often than not when they're on the same continent, let alone in the same room.

"Let me see your arm."

It catches Quinn off guard as she's still searching for an answer. "What? Why?"

"Let me see your arm."

Hesitantly, Quinn pulls both sleeves of her black robe up and holds out her arms, palm-side up, for Hannah's investigative gaze. The normally-black-haired girl zeros in on the round patch stuck in the crevice of her left elbow. It's ripped off instantly making Anabeth wince and shout out a loud "OW!"

"Just checking."

A light clicks on in Quinn's mind. "Ah." Her eyes close briefly. "Of course." Her now snide gaze levels with the green one across from her. "It is impossible to keep a smoking habit in London these days. Hence the patch. But I still can't believe you thought I would..."

Behind her the toaster pops and she jumps up immediately, popping open the jar of her grandmother's raspberry preserves, the one thing she enjoyed about having to move to Georgia.

"You're going to avoid me now aren't you? That's just great. Doesn't matter. I have things to do today. I have a meeting with Mycroft about something in Korea or another... We still have to finish this conversation Harls. I won't forget."

"If you are still in England by the time I get off work today, then maybe we will finish the conversation. But not until then."

"Oh I will be, you don't have to worry about that. We still have a movie marathon scheduled. And I'm bringing a special guest."

By the time Quinn turned back around with a piece of toast halfway to her mouth Hannah was gone. In her place, however, was Sherlock Holmes with quite a sullied look on his face.

"She has got to stop that."

"Who?" Sherlock asked.

"Hannah. Was she not just- nevermind," she says to the inquisitive look he gave her.

"You're in my kitchen."

"And now I'm leaving your kitchen, with my toast and my preserves." She passes by the man in nothing but a sheet, her robe blowing open ever so slightly. "See you around."

* * *

**Text Messages Between John Watson and Anabeth Ryder**

Where are you? JW

**Late night. Stayed with a co-worker. AR**

Have you seen the news? JW

**Considering your text woke me up, no. AR**

There's been an explosion on Baker St. Across the street from the flat. JW

**What?! Everyone alright? AR**

I don't know. JW

Just left Sarah's. JW

**I'll meet you there. AR**

* * *

**221B Baker Street**

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John rushes up the stairs half expecting, well he's not sure what. Anabeth, maybe Mrs. Hudson, fussing over the savant, Sherlock himself still in his dressing gown from the night before certainly. The sight that greets him is confounding, just a little anyways.

Sherlock is sitting in his own chair, plucking his violin; Mycroft is resting in John's own chair, clutching his umbrella; and Anabeth is standing in the middle of the room, crossing her arms. They each spare him a glance.

"John," Sherlock and Anabeth say in greeting.

"I saw it on the telly. You okay?" he wonders.

Sherlock glances around a tad confused.

"What? Oh! Yeah. Fine," he replies. "Gas leak, apparently." He looks pointedly at his brother. "I can't."

"Can't?" Mycroft asks. John wanders over to the covered window, surveying the damage.

"Stuff I've got on is just too big," Sherlock elaborates. "I can't spare the time."

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance."

"How's the diet?" Sherlock questions of his brother in attempt to annoy him.

Quinn wanders over to the couch with a yawn and lies down on her back, fingers laced together and resting on her ample chest, eyes closed.

"Fine," the brother replies. "Perhaps you could get through to him John."

John glances over from the mess of broken glass and rubbish. "Hmm? What?"

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?"

"No no no no no no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections–" John and Sherlock glance over to him as he pauses. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?"

"Is that what your meeting with Hannah was about?" Anabeth pipes up, her voice half sleepy.

Mycroft ignores the inquiry. "Besides a case like this requires," he winces, "leg work."

Sherlock plucks the violin again. "And Anabeth can't do this?"

"I could," the person in question says as she sits up properly. "However, after six months of being in London, I finally have an in."

"You found an in weeks ago," he complains. "You're already sleeping with your mark."

"I was sleeping with him before he was my mark." She stands and leaves the room. Sherlock watches her as she does, analyzing her every move.

* * *

**Texts between Sherlock Holmes and Anabeth Quinn**

I have a case. SH

**Ooo. Good for you. AR**

Sarcasm is not flattering on you. SH

**I would have to be flattering in the first place. AR**

Are you going to join? SH

Could be dangerous. SH

**With you, everything is dangerous. AR**

Take that as a no then. Breaking into your flat. SH

**Why the hell are you breaking into my flat? AR**

It's for the case. SH

**Oh? Breaking into my flat is okay as long as it is for a case? AR**

**Mrs. Hudson has a key. AR**

Too late. SH

You break into my flat all the time. SH

**It does not count. There is no breaking involved. I simply walk up the stairs. AR**

And I simply picked the lock and walked down the stairs. SH

Love what you've done with the place. SH

**Yeah... the whole drab, half ruined basement look wasn't me. AR**

Meet me at Bart's when you're finished. SH

**I told you I am busy. AR**

**You are not going to reply, are you? AR**

**Fine. See you there. AR**


	13. Meaning of a Tragedy

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter Thirteen  
"The Meaning of a Tragedy"**

**The Pool**

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call." Jim walks slowly into the pool room. "Is that a British Army Branning L9A1 in your pocket? Or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Both," Sherlock says as he raises his weapon.

"Jim Moriarty," the criminal says in greeting. "Hi!" He takes a few steps. "Jim? Jim from the hospital? Huh. I really make such a fleeting impression? Although, I suppose that was rather the point."

Sherlock corrects his stance but otherwise remains silent.

"Oh, don't be silly someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty. Miss Quinn doesn't mind though." Jim smiles at the slight confusion that passes over Sherlock's face briefly. "Oh, did my lovely assistant not tell you? Shame." He walks closer to John and Sherlock. "I've given you a glimpse Sherlock, a teensy glimpse at what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see." His face picks up like he suddenly realized something. "Like you."

"'Dear Jim,'" Sherlock begins, "'Please will you fix it for me. To get rid of my lover's nasty sister.' 'Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America.'"

"Just so."

"Consulting criminal. Brilliant."

Jim squeezes his eyes shut briefly. "Isn't it? No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."

Sherlock flicks the safety off and cocks the gun. "I did."

"You've come the closest. No you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did."

Jim shrugs over-exaggerated, "Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock, daddy's had enough now. I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning... my dear... back off. Although, I have loved this... this little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT. Playing gay, did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died," Sherlock tells.

"That's what people _DO!_" Moriarty yells.

"I will stop you."

"No you won't."

Sherlock glances over to John. "You all right?"

Moriarty closes the distance between John and himself. "You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead," he says leaning over John's shoulder and nodding.

Sherlock holds the flash drive out. "Take it."

Jim pulls the plastic piece into his grasp and flips it over. "Ah, the missile plans." He smiles. "Boring. I could have gotten them anywhere," he tells tossing the small device into the pool.

Behind him John runs up and pulls the criminal into a choke hold. "Sherlock run!"

Moriarty laughs. "Good! Very good!"

"Your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up."

"Oh, she's not my sniper," he snaps, his voice a little too high. "She's not _my_ anything. Not anymore." He looks back to Sherlock. "He's sweet, I can see why you like having him around. People do get so sentimental about their pets. And so touchingly loyal." He shifts he weight suddenly. "Oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson."

The laser from another rifle shows itself against the dark mop of hair against Sherlock's forehead.

"Gotcha!" Jim announces. "Westwood." He straightens his suit back out. "Do you know what happens, Sherlock, if you don't leave me alone, to you?"

"Oh, let me guess," Sherlock deadpans. "You're going to kill me."

"Kill you?" Jim rolls his eyes. "Oh don't be obvious, I'm going to kill you someday. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No no no no." He shakes his head subtly. "If you don't stop prying, I will burn you." He glances down Sherlock's person like what he sees disgusts him. "I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

"I have been widely informed that I don't have one." Sherlock's voice is softer than it has been, less confident.

"But we both know that's not quite true." Moriarty shrugs and looks around. "Well, I better be off. It's so nice to have had a proper chat."

Sherlock breathes in deeply. "What if I was to shoot you now, right now?"

"Well, then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Moriarty says halfheartedly as he puts on a faux look of shock. "Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really, I would. And just a teensy bit... disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long, Miss Quinn would see to that." His half smirk drops. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

"Catch... you... later..." Sherlock says as he watches the man leave.

"No you won't!" Jim shouts back.

When the door echos shut, Sherlock races towards John and starts tearing at the jacket he wears. "All right? Are you all right?" he interrogates as he yanks the jacket of the other man's shoulders and throws it to the other end of the pool.

"Yeah yeah yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine, Sherlock," John mumbles. "Sherlock!"

Said man rushes into the hallway Moriarty left through. John crouches against the wall, the adrenaline starting to wane away. Anabeth shoves through the doors previously entered by Sherlock, wearing a catsuit of all things.

"John!" she gasps, rushing over to the man's side. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, fine. Sherlock-"

The sound of another door opens and Sherlock walks back in, scratching his temple with the pistol.

"Are _you_ okay?" Anabeth asks.

"Me?" Sherlock says, not pausing in his pacing. "Yeah, I'm fine. That, uh, thing you did," he says to John. "That you offered to do, erm, good."

"I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hmm?"

"You ripping off my clothes in a darkened swimming pool. People would talk."

"People already talk." Anabeth smirked. "Holmes ripped your clothes off?"

They shared a quick snort before Anabeth's eyes widened at the little red dot on John's chest. "Son of a bitch," she mumbles.

"Sorry boys. I am so changeable! It is a weakness with me."

Anabeth closes her eyes and groans.

"But to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

"Probably my answer has already crossed yours," Sherlock says turning around and aiming the gun at Moriarty.

"Holmes," Anabeth breathes softly as she watches the sights on the gun slowly move toward the jacket full of plastic explosives. "Don't." She un-holsters her own government issue from its place on her side and aims it at the criminal.

_Staying Alive_ by the Bee Gees starts playing, echoing through the room.

"Honestly?" Anabeth asks.

"Mind if I get that?" Moriarty wonders.

Sherlock shrugs and waves the gun. "Oh no, please. You've got the rest of your life."

Jim pulls the phone from his pocket and unlocks it. "Hello?... Yes, of course it is. What do you want?" He glances up to Sherlock and Anabeth both and mouths the word "Sorry."

"You're fine," Sherlock mouths back.

"SAY THAT AGAIN!" the consulting criminal shouts. "Say that again and know that if you're lying to me I will find you and I will sskin you."

Sherlock and John exchange a glance. They both turn their noses up to view Anabeth's reaction, though her face is still stoic and trained on Moriarty.

"Wait." The phone is pulled away from Jim's ear and he slowly walks toward the threesome. He pauses right before he has to step over the jacket.

Anabeth's head tilts ever so slightly and she releases the safety. "Better offer?"

"No offer is as good as yours Annie-belle."

"They never are."

"I will be in touch," he breathes as he stalks away.

"I'll be waiting."

John breathes a sigh of relief when Moriarty leaves the room for the last time.

Sherlock drops his arm "Someone changed his mind. The question is who."


	14. I Won't be Made a Fool Of

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter Fourteen  
"I Won't Be Made a Fool of"**

**221b Baker Street**

Anabeth slams a newspaper onto Sherlock's lap as she passes by into his kitchen. "I'm gone for a week and you boys make the paper. Hello, John," she says to the computer screen. "Who are you?" she asks of the obese man in John's chair. "Never mind, I don't care."

"Hello, Anabeth," John breathes.

"Pass me over," Sherlock snaps as if he's said it one too many times.

"Fine, but there's a mute button and I will use it," John warns.

Anabeth rolls her eyes and looks to the stranger. "You're the suspect?"

Sherlock sputters before the man could answer. "Up a bit! I'm not talking from down here."

John groans. "Fine!" He passes it to the other man. "Take it. Take it!"

"Having driven to an isolated a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective? Fair play?" Sherlock inquires.

"He's trying to be clever. He's overconfident," the inspector says.

Sherlock sighs. "Did you see him?"

"He's not exactly flowing with confidence," Anabeth states as she walks over to Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock scopes the girl out briefly. "You're not exactly flowing with confidence either."

"There's a sleazeball staring at my ass. Sorry if I'm keeping my robe closed." She chuckles deeply and leans down, brushing her lips against the detective's ear. "Besides," she breathes sultry, "you can't do your deduction thing when I'm scantily clad."

A shiver runs down Sherlock's spine. "In that case, why don't _you_ tell him why he can't be the killer."

Anabeth gives a breathless laugh and slips her hand beneath the cream sheet he's covered with. "I'm a bit out of sorts myself."

The inspector clears his throat. "Save the intimacy for the bedroom please."

She laughs again, louder this time, and straightens. "He's obese, has the halitosis of a single man living alone-"

"Right sleeve of an internet porn addict," Sherlock interjects, "and the breathing of an untreated heart condition."

Anabeth nods, going along with it. "He couldn't keep eye contact when I spoke with him earlier, self-esteem issues."

"A tiny IQ, and a limited life expectancy. And you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?"

The duo turns around to look at the so-called suspect. "No offense," they say together and turn back around.

"What did you say? Heart what?" the man asks desperately.

"Go to the stream," Sherlock says.

"What's in the stream?" the inspector asks.

"Go and see."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson calls as she walks through the door way followed by two men wearing suits. "You weren't answering your door bell."

"His bedroom's through the back get him some clothes," one man asked.

Anabeth's smiles apologetically. "We were a bit preoccupied, Mrs. Hudson."

"Who the hell are you?" Sherlock wonders, not bothering to turn all the way around.

"Sorry Mr. Holmes, you're coming with us." He shuts the computer. "You as well Miss Ryder."

The other man comes back in with a suit for Sherlock and sets it on top of the laptop. Sherlock stares at the pile as if it's poisoned.

"Please Mr. Holmes, where you're going you'll want to be dressed," the man says.

Anabeth watches looks pass across Sherlock's face as he deduces the two men in a span of less than thirty seconds.

The detective smirks. "I know exactly where I'm going."

* * *

Footsteps alert Sherlock and Anabeth to John's arrival. Turning towards the man, they give a small grin. He holds his hands out as if to ask what's going on and Sherlock shrugs in response. With a sigh and one last look down the hall he just came from, he walks to the sofa and sits on the other side of Anabeth. He takes a glance at the clothing on the table and turns towards the couple taking in their attire, Anabeth in her black silk dressing gown and Sherlock in his sheet.

"Are either of you wearing any pants?"

"No," they reply in sync.

"Okay."

The trio share a look before laughing, Anabeth's soprano a contrast to their tenor and bass.

"Buckingham Palace," John says in disbelief. "I am seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ash tray."

Anabeth glances around a small smile on her lips. "What are we doing here? Seriously."

"I don't know," Sherlock replies.

"Here to see the queen?" John offers.

Anabeth chuckles and shakes her head. She smirks as Mycroft enters the room, Hannah shortly behind him. "Apparently, yes."

Again they laugh together.

Mycroft clenches his jaw. "Just once could you three behave like grownups?"

"We solve crimes," John says. "She's American, I blog about it, and they forget their pants. I wouldn't hold up too much hope."

"I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft," Sherlock tells.

"And I was getting breakfast. Somehow my toaster has managed to make its way upstairs." Anabeth mumbled.

"The Hiker and the Backfire? I glanced at the police report, bit obvious wasn't it?" Mycroft asks.

"Transparent," Sherlock responds.

"Time to move on then." Clearing his throat, the elder Holmes leans down, picks up the pile of clothes and holds them out towards his brother, who stares at him petulantly. He sighs. "We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British Nation. Sherlock Holmes, put on your trousers."

Sherlock shrugs. "What for?"

"Your client."

"And my client is?" Sherlock asks as he stands.

"Illustrious in the extreme."

The five of them turn towards the new individual, the two still sitting stand to greet the man.

"And remaining, I'll have to inform you, entirely anonymous. Mycroft, Miss Wayne."

Mycroft steps forward and takes the man's hand to shake it. "Harry. May I just apologize for the state of my little brother."

"And I, for my dear friend," Hannah says shaking the man's hand as well.

"Full time occupation, I imagine," Harry jokes. He turns towards the trio previously resting on the couch. "And this must be Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Yes," John says taking the man's hand. "Hello."

"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog."

"Your employer?" John asks.

"Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminum crutch."

John looks pointedly at Sherlock in an "I told you so" manner.

"Gunnery Sergeant Christabella Quinn of the US Marine Corps." Harry says stepping around John.

Anabeth shakes the proffered hand and gives a curt nod. "Sir."

He moves on to the next person. "And Mr Holmes, the younger. You look taller in your photographs."

Sherlock nods. "I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend." He turns and stalks past. "Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I get enough mystery on one end of my cases, both ends is too much. Good morning," he calls over his shoulder.

Mycroft steps to on the end of the sheet as it passes by him. The sheet unravels itself from the alabaster body of Sherlock, and he's quick to catch it before it falls completely. Anabeth has to look away and clear her throat.

"This is a matter of national importance. Grow up!" Mycroft growls.

"Get of my sheet!"

"Or what?"

"Or I'll just walk away."

"I'll let you."

"Boys," John says, "please not here."

"Who. Is. My. Client?" Sherlock all but begs.

"Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction," Mycroft orders. "You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now, for God's sake- Put your clothes on."

* * *

"And there is our whole childhood in a nutshell," snipes Sherlock in response to Mycroft's prior utterance.

There's a silent moment when the six sit in a small less-than-comfortable silence.

"My employer has a, er, problem," Harry says eventually.

"A matter has come to light," Mycroft begins, "of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen."

"Why?" Sherlock wonders. "You have a police force of sorts even a marginally secret service. Why come to me?"

"People come to you for help, don't they Mr. Holmes.?" Harry asks.

"Mmmm, not to date anyone with the navy."

"It's a matter of the highest security and therefore of trust," Mycroft says.

"You don't trust your own secret service?" John wonders.

"Don't be daft," Anabeth states. "They spy for a livin', of course he doesn't trust them. Or me. Or Hannah. Now, movin' on to the actual case at hand and not simply what it's a matter of. What exactly are we dealing with?"

"Yes, of course," Mycroft picks up his brown leather brief case from the floor and unlocks it in his lap. "What do you know of this woman?" he asks passing a photograph across the way.

"Nothing whatsoever," Sherlock says after a brief second.

"Then you should be paying more attention."

Anabeth takes the photograph from Sherlock's hands. "If he knew who this woman was, I'd be slightly afraid of what he did late at night. Her name is Irene Adler. Center of two political scandals and ended the marriage of a well know novelist. She was the mistress of both participants, separately of course."

Sherlock looks to Anabeth, slightly curious. "You know I don't concern myself with trivia," he says glancing at his brother.

"Professionally she goes by The Woman," Mycroft tells.

"Professionally?" John inquires.

"There are many names for what she does. She prefers _dominatrix_."

"Dominatrix," Sherlock breathes.

"Oh, don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex."

"Sex doesn't alarm me," Sherlock counters.

Mycroft scoffs. "How would you know?"

There's an itch that crawls underneath Anabeth's skin as she glances up and between the brothers. There's a hint of something that only ever shows up in the younger child's eyes when natural sibling rivalry goes too far that's half hidden in the blue green of Sherlock's eyes. Anabeth's all too familiar with the look and she scratches at that itch with a cheeky grin and the words; "Oh, trust. Sex certainly doesn't alarm him. I'd give you details... but I'm certain you don't want hear how delicious he is in bed." She doesn't turn her head to meet the inquiring gaze of Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft continues as if she hadn't spoken. "She provides, shall we say, recreational scolding, for those that enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it." He pulls a few more photos from his briefcase and passes them across. "These are all from her website."

Sherlock scans through them quickly before handing them to Anabeth who simply waves them away.

"I suppose Ms. Adler has compromising photographs?" Anabeth asks.

"Very quick, Ms. Quinn," Harry states.

"Hardly difficult deduction," Sherlock replies. "Photographs of whom?"

Mycroft, Hannah and Harry all exchange a glance.

"A person of significance to my employer," Harry finally states, "We'd prefer not to say anymore at this time."

"You can't tell us anything?" John asks.

"I can tell you it's a young person," Mycroft tells.

"A young female person," Hannah elaborates and Anabeth has to smile because this is Hannah's favorite game.

"How many photographs?" Sherlock questions.

"A considerable number apparently."

"Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?"

"Yes they do."

"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios."

"An imaginative range, we are assured."

"John," Anabeth and Sherlock say together. They glance at each other before Anabeth stares at her clasped hands.

"You might want to put that cup back in its saucer now," Sherlock finishes.

"Can you help us, Mr. Holmes?" Harry asks.

"How?"

"Will you take the case?"

"What case? Pay her, now, and in full. As Miss Adler remarks on her website; know when you are beaten."

"She doesn't want anything," Mycroft snaps. Sherlock looks to him interested for the first time since arriving. "She got in touch, warned us the photographs existed. She indicted she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favor."

"Oh," Sherlock says suddenly realizing, "a power play. A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a dominatrix. Ooo, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?"

"Sherlock," John warns.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asks as he stands up and prepares to leave.

"In London, currently. She's staying-"

"Text me the details, I'll be in touch by the end of the day."

"You really think you'll have something by then?" the equerry asks.

"No I think I'll have the photographs."

"One can only hope you're as good as you seem to think."

"I'll need some equipment of course," Sherlock states after scrutinizing Harry.

"Anything you require, I'll have it sent-" Mycroft starts.

"Can I have a box of matches?"

"I'm sorry?" the equerry wonders.

Sherlock holds his hand out. "Or your cigarette lighter either one will do."

"I don't smok-"

"Oh I know you don't, but your employer does."

"We have kept a lot of people," Harry says reaching into his pocket, "successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm not the commonwealth," Sherlock replies as he leaves. "Laterz."

John follows immediately, giving only a short and curt "pleasure to meet you," leaving Anabeth to follow him. Hannah catches her before she's gone.

"The DCS is after her as well," Hannah states.

Anabeth rolls her eyes and continues on. "The DCS can get over himself."


	15. The Need to Prove

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter Fifteen  
"The Need To Prove"**

**The White Stallion Burlesque Club**

The Madam paced back and forth in front of the only empty vanity that night.

"Relax, Madam," one of the other girls, Mandaline, called to her. "Anabeth said she'd be here. She's the one girl that keeps her promises here."

"Anabeth's skipped out on us all week," the Madam said pointedly. "I don't entirely trust the girl."

"She's one of the best girls we've ever had, Kiki," Toni calls to her from the balcony above. "Give her a break. She said it was a family emergency."

The Madam gave the mulatto girl a cursory look. "Give her a break? How much family can one American have in London?"

"None, actually," a sharp voice says. "Not anymore. Thanks for your concern. I've been busy this week. With family problems, yes, but not in London. I've been out of town most of the week." The lie slipped from her crimson lips naturally. "You can call my brother if you'd like. I mean he's not exactly happy about ending his honeymoon a week early but, you know, he won't mind defending his baby sister's honor."

Kiki's jaw set as she shot Anabeth a meaningful glare, which was rebutted with one of a dare. Anabeth took her seat at her mirror and pulled the bag of cosmetics from her purse. The bag was immediately dumped out on the table. Kiki walked away with a bit less pep than earlier. "Thirty minutes to showtime," she growls.

Anabeth begins to slather foundation on her face sighing at the temperature of it. "I can't stand her and she knows it. She's needs a viable excuse to cut me. And one family emergency isn't it."

Roxanna, a tall lithe natural strawberry blonde, came and leaned on Anabeth's table already in full costume. "You know, you could be a little less rude and maybe she won't strangle you."

"Oh? And risk losing my bad ass reputation? I don't think so. It's too much fun." She paints her eyelids a smokey gray before gluing bejeweled eyelashes on. "I just have the Cher number tonight right?"

"Yeah, Madam Kiki was worried you wouldn't show. And you haven't practiced so..."

"I always practice, not that-"

"Yeah, yeah. Not that you need to."

"Damn skippy."

Madam Kiki called fifteen 'til. And the girls rushed around to put their outfits on. With a final stroke of red to her lips, Anabeth powdered her face with settling powder before rushing off to find the skimpy little black thing she had to squeeze into.

* * *

Anabeth had just gotten off stage when things began going down hill.

"Have you seen Sherry?" Kiki asked her.

Anabeth shook her head. "Not since we went out for a smoke right before I went on. She stayed out there."

"She wasn't out back," Roxanna says slipping the back fire door shut.

Anabeth shrugged. "Did she go for a walk you think?"

Roxanna shook her head. "I didn't see her."

"We need to find her," Kiki ordered. "Check the bathroom."

Roxanna crossed her arms. "I already did. She's not here. She might have left."

"She might have gone for a walk. Clear her head," Quinn states. "She's been having troubles with her boyfriend, you know. I'll go slip into something warmer and see if she's gotten too far." She turns away quickly and rushed to her table to slip into the trench coat waiting on the back of her chair. Her black stilettos click on the refurbished flooring of back stage. She hastens to the door pulling her cell phone from her pocket. Sherry's number is hidden within the S's of her contacts. The bar is clicked and soon a dial tone is emanating into her ear.

The night is exceptionally chilly on her fishnet clad legs. She shivers a bit as Lady Antebellum's "American Honey" began playing shortly down the alley. Quinn pulls her phone from her ear.

"Sherry?" she calls out. "Sherry, is that you?" Her pace quickens to a near run as she nears the other side of the dumpster. "Sherry, what are you- Ohmygod."

Sherry was a short blonde who favored the color yellow, which made sense considering the normally cheery mood she owned. Currently, though, she wore a short black silk robe, the very same she'd been wearing twenty minutes prior, ripped open to reveal a hot pink corset stained crimson. The woman's glassy blue eyes stared up at the starless sky.

Quinn reached down to pick up her phone had clattered to the ground upon finding her co-worker dead. She glances at the screen to see it back on her contact list. For a second her thumb hovered over the name above Sherry's. And while she deserved a thorough investigation as he could provide, after scoping through the Doctor's blog, she knew he'd be bored. Instead she flicked the list back up and clicked on Madam Kiki's name.

"Hey, you might want to come out here."

* * *

"Are you Miss Ryder?"

Anabeth glances up at the man in front of her, the man in charge no doubt, and gives a small nod. "Yes, that's me."

The man gives a small smile and holds out a small envelope. Cautiously she takes the envelope and stares at the graceful swooping of her name on the front. The calligraphy a slight ornamental variation of an English Script. She flipped it over to find a red wax seal with the Quinn family crest pressed into it.

"You've got to be kidding me," she breathes as she opens the letter. The stationery was thick, bohemian... and her own she realizes as she takes in the clock in the bottom right hand corner over which a black feather was taped. The handwriting, less flamboyant as on the envelope but just the same nonetheless, covered the entire page.

"_Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,  
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.  
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow  
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -  
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -  
Nameless here for evermore."_

_It seems our friend shared a mutual liking of Edgar Allen Poe. A distinguished author, do you not agree? It was on this night that you told me fourteen years ago, though it was ten at the time, that you lost your voice in the form of a broken heart but found it in the flourish of a paintbrush. It's a pity really. I would've loved to hear you sing, Sherry as well._

_You must believe me when I say; I did not want to kill her. Such a waste of beauty to lie motionless beneath the earth forevermore. It was the only way I could think of to grab your attention. I certainly hope it worked. You should never turn your back._

_A little bird, a raven in fact, once told me you hate long ops. Well, here's your chance to liven it up. I challenge the brilliant mind of the youngest Quinn to a game of wits and deduction. I have someone near to you, a young woman whom you spoke with just earlier this evening. Know that I will kill again and on that new corpse, I will leave you clues to Emily's whereabouts. Ahh, yes, young Miss Emily Becker-Hills. I hope you know it was simply too easy to figure her name. You're getting lax as of late dear Christabella._

_Follow the clues, and do everything I say, and Emily will be returned to you, unscathed. If you do not, well, you can say goodbye to yet another asset. Are you up to the task, Miss Quinn? Or will this story end as all Poe's do? With madness, sin and horror?_

Anabeth lifts her eyes from the unsigned letter to the man in front of her, Detective Inspector Lestrade, if she remembered correctly. "Does Holmes trust you?"

He gives her a confused look. "Holmes? As in Sherlock Holmes?"

"No, Mike Holmes." She shakes her head in disdain. "Of course Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade shrugs. "About as far as he can throw me."

"Fine, good. I don't want anyone else to work on this case. Including your team. I want their involvement a minimum."

"Oi! Who says you can do that?" Lestrade asks miffed.

"The simple fact that this case is officially over your head." Quinn gives him an earnest smile before pulling out her phone and sending off a quick text. "I suggest you tell your little puppets to wrap it up now. And it's not me who says I can. It's the man you're about to get a call from now."

It's not a minute later that Lestrade's phone rings. Suspicious, he answers it and hardly gets a word in before the voice on the other end begins ranting. Lestrade's able to get in a few, "Yes, Sir's" and "No, sir's" and even a "Right away, sir" before the line goes dead and he's glaring at the dancer.

"I don't know how you did it, I have a feeling I don't want to know." Lestrade held out a hand to Anabeth who shook it. "Nice meeting you."

"You as well."

Lestrade calls for his people to leave and within five minutes the alleyway is empty.


	16. Long Nights

**Why Fireflies Flash  
Chapter Sixteen  
"Long Nights"**

Anabeth sighs to herself. The letter is half crumpled in her hand as she takes a seat on the stoop of the club's back door. The body had already been taken to St. Bart's and all the witness interviewed all that was left was to wait for the autopsy and inevitably the next body. Of course there's evidence here, with this crime, but none of it would be worth a damn until the next victim.

It wasn't six minutes later that a wet nose pressed against her thigh. She looks down the Siberian Husky and smiles.

"What are you doing here girl?" she asks as she scratches the dog's head.

"I found her, wandering the streets, alone and lost."

Quinn looked up in to blue eyes so similar to hers. "Lies. Lizzy is never lost, are you girl?"

Lizzy, or more commonly Blizzard, presses her nose to her companions thigh in assent.

"So, back to work so soon?"

Alfie shrugs. "Eh, Chris'll understand. My baby sister needs me."

Anabeth shook her head. "I do not need you. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

The brother glances around the alley. "Certainly seems like it."

Quinn clears her throat and glares at him. "Is there a team coming to examine the scene?"

Alfie shook his mess of ginger curls. "No. I believe everything that's worth examining has already been. But of course, you could always have you detective friend come over."

"He is on his way."

Alfie bends down and pushes her hair behind her ear and smiles as he straightens up.

"What was that?"

Alfie smirks. "Just making sure you haven't turned completely Vulcan on us. There's hope for you yet."

"Gee, thanks."

* * *

Anabeth paces the alley as Hannah reads aloud the letter, her thigh high purple suede stiletto boots clicking on the dirty ground.

"Harley, will you stop that?" Hannah asks suddenly. "It's giving me whiplash."

"This sick bastard has her, Wayne. And you want me to just stand here?" Quinn growls. "You know me better than that."

"And we've also been here for forty-five minutes," Alfie states irritated. "When is your little detective friend supposed to show up?"

Quinn gives him a glance. "You are just cranky from the cold."

"You're right, I am." He sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. "I don't understand, Ana, what's going on? You're never this discombobulated. You're always analytical, always together. What does this case have that others don't? You've been found out before so that's not it."

Anabeth's answer is cut off by the sharp vibrating of her phone. She starts to pace again as she pulls the message up.

**Hello? Anybody there? Annie-belle?**

Her face goes sour at the nickname. She really never did like it.

"So that's it?" Alfie asks. "It's Jim again? Fifteen years and you're still not over him?"

"Will you two stop making me older than I really am? It is fourteen years and yes, I am over him. I have been. And do not think I have forgotten I was not the only one hurt by his leaving me. I seem to remember you both on the couch scarfing down Ben & Jerry's whilst I got ready for yet another therapy session months after the fact."

Hannah gets an aha! look to her face. "You were in therapy because why? Oh that's right, you immediately went into shock and wouldn't speak for _months after the fact._"

Anabeth groaned. "Do we have to talk about my personal life?"

"Ana, this whole thing, being in London, you trying to nab Jim, _is_ your personal life," Alfie explains. "I hate to break it to you, but unless you drag him into Langley tomorrow morning, your personal life is what we have to talk about."

Hannah cleared her throat and nods to the other end of the alley. Anabeth turns and sighs in relief. She walks swiftly toward the Consulting Detective and his partner-in-crime-solving with Blizzard at her heels. She pulls up her own photos, snapped before the police arrived, and hands the former the phone.

"Sherry Frans, 28, a dancer here at the Stallion. It appears she was killed with a straight razor to the throat. These were the only pics I got before your friend showed up."

Sherlock's eyes had traced her as she waltzed toward him. Speechless now, he looks down to the Joker themed iPhone and swipes through the pictures.

"Lestradecoudnthandlethis?" He clears his throat and shakes his head. "Lestrade couldn't handle this?"

"Should I stop dressing like this?" Anabeth asks looking to John who was trying to find something to not stare at himself. "Because it seems any time I'm in less than a blouse and skirt, Holmes finds himself tongue tied."

"Yes, that would, ahem, be nice," John replies still looking away.

Anabeth gives a humorless laugh. "It would seem so. And to answer your nearly indecipherable question, Holmes, yes, Lestrade could handle the case. And on the record he is. But I need someone who knows my true occupation to work it off the case. I would do it myself but the simple fact of my emotional involvement prevents me from doing so. Hannah is of no use to me and Alfie is not made for the field." She turns to them, "No offense. So that leaves me with you two. Again no offense meant."

Sherlock meets Quinn's emotionless eyes for a brief moment.

"I owe you," she says softly before returning to her previous group. "I found her by the dumpster. Lestrade found this note. Probably in her pocket." She holds up the letter. "The contents are in the memo I sent you. Lestrade should be sending the rest of the information and evidence found, if he hasn't already. I am having Alfie analyze the handwriting, like always. I am treating this as any other op, forgive me if I seem too mechanized." The letter is passed to her brother and she stalks back down the alley to get her phone.

"I did not get very long to look at the body, so I am off to St. Bart's. The woman in the morgue, the little brunette willing to do anything you say, what was her name?"

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock answers. "Are you not staying?"

"And have you stare at the giant bow on my ass or the jewels adorning my brassiere?" Anabeth questions with a sultry voice. "I'm assuming anyway. I'll pass on that one. As I said, I'm off to St. Bart's."

* * *

**St. Bart's Hospital**

"Molly Hooper, correct?"

The slender brunette turns from the buffet and to the voice. She comes face to face with the American woman from weeks ago now.

"Yes," she says slowly.

The dark haired woman smiled warmly. "We met earlier. I'm Anabeth Ryder, part-time dancer, part-time artist, and apparently now part-time detective. I live in the flat beneath Holmes."

"Oh, nice to meet you." Molly's still weary of the woman, pictures of her earlier temper flaring in her mind.

"And you. I was wondering, um Holmes mentioned that you would be my best option, but I was hoping that you might allow me to look at a, um," Anabeth allows her voice to crack here, "girl that came in earlier, uh Sherry Frans?"

Molly looks down at her clipboard and spots the name. "Oh, I've just sent off the paperwork."

Anabeth frowns. "Alright then. You've sent your findings to DI Lestrade I presume then?" She doesn't wait for an answer.

"Miss Ryder?" Molly calls before she's too far away. Anabeth turns with a bright smile on her face, though it looks forced. "Did Sherlock not tell you to look at the body yourself? He always has his... colleague look if he can't."

"I'm not a colleague, Miss Hooper. And please call me Anabeth. I'm not even a friend. I was intrigued by my strange neighbor and when he offered me a chance to tag along, I took it. I wanted to see a friend one last time and inquired of him a way to and he gave me your name. But if you've finished with her, I see no call for you to drag her out again. We weren't that close after all. I knew her from work."

Molly returns the woman's now solemn smile. "I could pull her out for just a moment. It's hardly a big deal."

Anabeth nods once. "You're in need of a friend, Molly Hooper. One not enamored by death. I hope I could be that friend one day. Until we meet again, Miss Hooper."

* * *

**221C Baker Street**

"You know, your detective friend is kinda hot," Alfie says as he lounges on the couch. "I mean, the short one's kinda cute. But if I was you, I'd go after the psychopath."

"Sociopath," Anabeth corrects.

"So you _do_ care."

"Only about the misuse of the word "psychopath." And he has a name."

Alfie looks up at his sister whose sitting sideways in her armchair with the dog under her hand. "Of which you only use the surname of."

"You are here to tell me about the handwriting."

"It's not an exact science."

"I know."

"And it's very easy to disguise."

"Yet most people do not. So what did you get?" she asks as she pick up the letter yet again.

Alfie sighs and looks down at the photocopy on the coffee table. "You see how the letters don't slant? He's like you."

This earns him a glare. "I do not kill and kidnap people."

"Not anymore," he reminds. Anabeth drops her gaze back to the letter. "I meant, he's logical and practical and guards his emotions. Now look at where he's says "I challenge the youngest Quinn..." His writing starts to tilt to the right. He's starting to become manipulative, controlling, perhaps a bit intrusive. His lettering is large, using both the front and back of the paper. He's outgoing and has a big personality, but it might just be an act. Heavy pressure might be a sign of commitment or seriousness, I wouldn't doubt either. But the inordinate amount of it... he's volatile. One wrong word and he'll snap.

"Closed L's and E's mean he's tense and skeptical. Probably about giving you so many hint's in this first letter, maybe about pleasing you, which is given away by the roundness of his S's. Tall upper stokes, as in L's and T's and H's like he has, show he has an unrealistic expectation of what he should achieve with the conquest. The way his G's and Y's lack a loop; he's impatient. The spacing between words could indicate a wish to be with others with the narrowness. It's more probable for him to be intrusive. The small distance between lines mean he's close to the action.

"Now," Alfie states with a deep breath, "the margins. The left margin being narrow, hints to caution and avoidence of being pushed before they're ready. The right being narrow as well, tells of impatience and an eagerness to continue."

"And you said it was not an exact science," Anabeth says amused.

"It's not. Anabeth, listen to me," he tells her seriously, "I know you trust me and my judgment. But it could go either way with this. I could be spot on, or I could be dead wrong. Hell, it could be some variation in the middle."

"What does you gut say?"

Alfie sighs. "My gut? My gut says this is a guy you can't challenge. You do what he says to every letter and don't go off course. Get Emily back and be done with or without apprehending the perpetrator."

"Then it is a good thing I do not rely on not gut feelings but analysis."


End file.
